The Magic Trick
by Fyrefly
Summary: “Sometimes I look at you,” Jack said softly, cradling her face, "and I think how easy it would be to snap your neck.” The drunken father, the butchered mother. The pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady...or many ladies.
1. Part I: About A Lady

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Chapter I: About A Lady**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. ******

**A/N: A slow start (especially for those of you looking for romance)…please bear with me! Also, I realize some things may not be entirely accurate (I have no understanding of chemical combustion/pyrotechnics whatsoever, and I realize that when the Joker's character was younger, the world of academia was much different than it is now)…also, I'm used to just doing one-shots now. Wanted this to be one too…I think the chapters breaks it up funny…but it started to get long and I wasn't even where I wanted to be yet. Anyway—this is just for fun. Don't be mean! ******

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"Let her go!"

_In spite of the mask and the make-up, the Joker could read the desperation in the Batman's eyes, could _taste_ it. He licked his lips and grinned to himself, chuckling, almost _giggling_._

"_Poor choice of words," he teased lightly, flexing his fingers on her skin—and he released her._

_The Batman plunged after her recklessly, diving head-first from the window in the most…unexpected…maneuver that the Joker had seen yet. Bemused, he stared briefly after the Bat and into the darkness, his mind working in overdrive, a hundred directions at once._

_His tongue darted out, wetting his upper lip._

"_It's always about a lady," he told his audience theatrically, and gestured to his thugs._

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"College?" Donald Napier sneered, his lips twisting like the word had a foul taste. "What the hell do you wanna go to college for, boy?"

Jackson scowled into his practice test-booklet, ignoring his father. Strands of blond-brown hair, clean and smooth but dulled from years of being washed with cheap soap instead of shampoo, hung over his narrow face.

"_Well?"_ the man insisted, glowering over the kid. He pounded his fist onto the kitchen table, a smidge to the left of the boy's open hand—almost crushing the fragile, bird-like bones there. _"Well?"_ he shouted.

Jackson finally looked up, eyeing his father dispassionately. "Go have another beer, Don," he said coldly.

That was _it._

In spite of his intoxication—or perhaps because of it—Don found his strength increased tenfold at this snide remark. Who was this boy—_this skinny-necked disappointment, this foul little brat—_to call his own father out? To make these sarcastic comments, to mock him?

His arms were slabs of fat and muscle, and it took nothing for him to knock the wiry kid out of his chair and against the wall. The thin plaster cracked. The boy wheezed briefly, then cast a smirk up at his father.

Donald Napier was incensed. "Well, Jack? Well, _Jacko?_" He loomed. Without warning his fist slammed into the drywall next to Jackson's head. White dust flew everywhere, stuck in his sweat and the creases of his face. But Jackson was used to these outbursts; he no longer even flinched. He'd gotten used to them back in middle school, back before—

—_before his mother died, Lydia, Lydia with the shining hair, who smelt like vanilla and almond-cream, who cuddled him in her arms back when everything was safe and Donald was "dad" and no matter how crummy things got there was never any yelling or alcohol or stale sweat—Mama with her guts torn out in the alley and Dad crying—_

"You think—what? You think _what,_ boyo? You don't need no college. What's wrong with a trade school, huh? Huh, Jack? Gotta get a fancy degree?"

Jackson listened to the tirade, looking bored and scornful all at once. Furious, Donald Napier pulled back his meaty arm and dealt a heavy backhand across the boy's face. For the hundredth time, Jackson's lip split against his teeth on the inside, his mouth burning. "You think you're better than your old man?" Donald bellowed. "You think you're high-class?"

Jackson's tongue flicked out to taste the blood on his lips. Coldly, then: "I _know_ I am, Don."

It was amazing that the voice of a boy could do, when carefully honed under the right circumstances. For instance, in this case—delivered not with arrogance but simply with a calm certainty and a deep contempt, almost a growl—it made Donald's stomach turn over right inside his beer-gut. For a second, he was suddenly very afraid of his young son, with the burning brown eyes and the olive skin, the dull hair that was the same burnished color as his mother's.

Shakily, Donald drew back. "Think you're smart, huh, Jacko," he murmured, not a question but a pale and trembling statement that would have liked to sound vicious and mean, but only fell flat on the bitten apartment carpet like a mouse with its tail in a trap. "A regular joker, hey, kid." He turned, walking heavily back to the kitchen, his mind already filled with images of his dead wife. "Think you're better'n me. Think you're high-class." He pulled a beer limply from the fridge and fumbled with the cap. "You're not, and you're crazy if you think so. Just…fuckin' _crazy_."

Jackson Napier licked his bloody lip and sat back down at his books.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"This is impressive, Jack, but I don't know how I can sanction this," his professor told him helplessly, staring at the equations in his hands. "How can I possibly give you faculty approval for a project that could take your head off?"

Jackson snorted. "I have it all figured," he said coolly—like the man was an idiot. "You've read it, you see how it works. It would be the perfect final project for this class." Show the idiot-jocks and alcoholics who was really boss. No matter how tough they thought they were, some of the labs got under all their skins: dangerous chemicals, highly flammable minerals. They didn't think they could control them; got all nervous and sweaty.

Well, Jackson Napier had seen real fear—he'd grown up with it—and he knew life was going to throw at you whatever the hell it wanted anyway. Why try to stop it? He liked to think his kinship with explosives came from the fact that he never _really_ expected anything from them. He didn't try to control them. He did his equations and if he happened to be right, they rewarded him. If he didn't—well, it hadn't happened so far. He liked to think of the chemicals and minerals as minor gods of chaos. He was simply paying homage.

Professor Atkinsen did _not_ look like he was going to relent anytime soon.

"Look," Jackson said suddenly, trying to sound reasonable, "we could just do this out on the football field. It's not going to cause any permanent damage out there—"

"And what if you get your face ripped off? What if you get hurt?"

Jackson winced slightly. His tongue flicked out to lick his upper lip—a bad habit now, after the years. He hated that he did it—it made him look weak. Maybe no-one else realized it, but it showed when he was nervous or cornered. He could almost taste the blood.

After all, simply shrugging and saying, _Then it gets ripped off,_ would probably get him an appointment with the Director of Campus Counseling, which was not what he was looking for .

_You're crazy—fuckin' crazy, Jacko,_ he heard Donald Napier say in the back of his mind. _Crazy if you think you're getting' out of here, if you think you're high-class. You're nuts._

"I'm not," Jackson said aloud, without thinking.

Luckily, Doc Atkinsen seemed to think it was a response to his question. He sighed. "I know you're good at this stuff, Jack. I know you are. But I just can't sanction this as a demonstration done by a student. It's too dangerous." He sighed again. "Look, you've done so much work already, I hate to just disregard this. How about if you just save this to use as one of your three theoretical essays at the end of the semester? It's long, but I'll give you extra points for it."

"It's a class based on chemical combustion and basic pyrotechnics," Jackson said tonelessly. "What more do you want?"

Doc Atkinsen sighed. Jackson thought he was singularly responsible for the global increase of CO-2 emissions. "It's wonderful work, Jack. I mean, really wonderful. But that's just it—it's _basic_ pyrotechnics. You learn foundational chemistry and mineral combustion. You set off some higher-end, more complicated rockets and stuff. You don't…put together firework shows or build bombs. You just kind of arrange things hypothetically, with people more professional than even me handling the dangerous stuff. Jack—"

But Jackson didn't change his expression—not at all. Every feature was set in stone. He simply took the papers, formulas, and diagrams from Atkinsen's hand and walked out the door.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When campus closed for the winter and Jackson went home for his first holiday break—simply because there was nowhere else to go—his father split his chin open.

It was a standard procedure. Donald was drunk. He spent the majority of his stupor lost in sweet memories—_Lydia, Lydia, your burnished-gold hair; Lydia, like sweet almonds. Lydia breast-feeding their boy, smiling, pulling quarters out of the kid's ears—_but Jackson knew that when Donald returned to reality, it would be that much worse. It was like losing his sweet wife all over again.

"I killed her!" Donald howled, his voice rotting with phlegm and tobacco. "I practically gutted her myself! ...Sweet, sweet Lydia…" a tear-stained, sweat-stained, sloppy mess, he collapsed on the floor.

"Get up, Don," Jackson said in disgust from his place at the table, pouring over his books. He didn't even afford his father a look.

Which was a shame, because a glance might have saved him the first of the scars on his face. Donald lumbered up like a bear and ham-fisted the skinny kid right in the face, knocking him out of the chair and breaking it in the process, to boot. "Do you think I'm a murderer, boy?" he screamed. Booze-scented spit flew across Jackson's face, slapping him wetly. Blood poured down his chin. _"Do you think I'm a murderer?"_

Jackson realized for the first time that in the last five months—since August, when he'd started attending the university on scholarship—he'd almost forgotten what a split lip felt like. He licked at the blood and ended up eventually driving himself to the hospital to have it stitched. It hurt like hell, of course. Blood flows fast through the lips, he found.

The split had been messy—not clean at all—and when Jackson got back to school to start his second semester, it was with black Frankenstein-stitching across his chin horizontally, and vertically up to his lip.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"What is _that_ from?"

They all wanted to know. Jackson tried to smirk but found it painful. He licked his lips instead, softening them so they wouldn't pull so much at the stitches.

"Bar fight," he told one kid.

"Rapist I took down in an alleyway," he said to a cute girl.

"Evil twin," he said to a professor, and then—

"Beat up some asshole who opened his stupid mouth too many times," he sneered to Dave Monroe, who looked nervous for the first time in his last few months of harassing Jackson.

Dave Monroe liked to pick fights. Jackson guessed it was because he was a loner who got good grades and looked scary—and scary he did look, he'd decided one day while gazing in the dorm-room mirror. Good-looking scary, maybe—he had good bone structure and nice hair now that he'd gotten some real shampoo—_hair like Mama's—_and good eyes. But there was an intensity about him, maybe something feral, that said: _I don't lay down for anyone. I make my own way. Bring your worst—and I'll tear you apart._

Girls liked him, he thought. Or they liked the look of him—dangerous, skinny but well-muscled, a bad boy. The scar helped. But they were too scared to try anything with him, and hell if he cared. Sometimes he wondered about what it would be like to fuck a girl—or to love one—but fuck-all if he wanted to get caught up in something like that. Women were nothing but trouble, and he firmly believed that.

A belief which he voiced—perhaps unintelligently—in his Women's Studies class one day. Although, in retrospect, he couldn't say if it had been a stupid move on his part, or a gleeful if subconscious _effort_ to stir up a little trouble.

Sometimes he liked to do that, just to see where it went.

"It's not that I don't like the ladies, or think they're inherently evil," he said after a comment garnered angry protests from the women around him. "It's just that they cause trouble."

No-one could tell if his comment was serious or mocking.

"They can't help it—they don't do anything wrong. Not really. The problem is simply that men go _stupid_ over them. Take Helen of Troy, for instance. Or the Sirens. Or any one of a number of historical—"

"Mythological," a blond girl with glasses corrected.

"—characters in our past." He turned to the girl who'd interrupted him. "Mythological—okay, maybe some of them. But still—doesn't that say something about our human mindset?"

"That guys are pigs," someone from behind him snapped.

"Circe—another great example, turning men into swine." He smirked. The stitches pulled painfully. "The fact of the matter is women are powerful. They're catalysts. Men have fallen into ruin for the love of a woman."

"As women have fallen for men," a curly-haired brunette reminded him.

"Fair enough," he conceded. "Maybe it's just my personal experiences, then," he added, thinking of his father—_Oh Lydia how could I have how could I have how could I have murdered you sweet Lydia_—"but I have seen a number of decent men go crazy over the loss or heartache caused by loving a woman. Great tragedy, heartache, loss, rage—deep down, it's always about a lady."

And at that point, he'd set back and let them argue without saying another word. The topic twisted away from prejudice against women and into matters of active and passive love and objectification. He liked to watch the little debates he set in motion morph into different conversations or, conversely, out-and-out arguments.

It was later that a vaguely familiar-looking girl approached him while he ate his sandwich in the courtyard. It was indoors, with a glass ceiling, and a great way to enjoy the outdoors in February, but no-one else was there. People tended to stay away from the dangerous boy who threatened Dave Monroe and had scars on his face and started deliberate arguments any time he could, just to see the effects.

"Why so serious?" the brunette asked lightly, coming over and sitting at the little table across from him.

He lifted his head and stared, too startled to hide his surprise initially. Well, this was a first.

Jackson swallowed his bite of sandwich—pastrami on rye. "I don't have anything to laugh about," he said icily. "Although, now that you're here…"

She startled him with a laugh—"Ouch, cold"—and offered her hand across the table. "I'm Evelyn Harris. Friends call me Evie."

He stared at her hand like it was diseased. "That's nice…Evelyn."

She laughed again—as though he were amusing!—and took her hand back. "So—you really believe all that stuff you said in Women's Studies?"

Ah. _That's_ where she was from. _As women have fallen for men,_ she'd said.

He shrugged. "Yeah, probably."

She wrinkled her nose. Jackson thought she looked like a moron, or a baby pig. "'Probably?'" she repeated.

He shrugged again and turned his attention back to his sandwich. _My dad fell apart when my mom died,_ he thought about saying. _He hates everything. He destroys everything he touches. Yeah, I believe what I said._

Evelyn Harris dropped it though. "Why are you even in that class? No offense, but you don't seem the 'Women's Studies' type."

He stared down at his sandwich, very obviously willing her away. "I like to see what makes people tick. It's a good class to do that in."

She smiled. "Fair enough. So, since I gather you won't be making the introduction yourself—Jackson Napier, right?"

He huffed through his nose. "Jack," he ground out.

She smiled. "I like Jackson better," she said lightly. "Besides, if you're going to call me Evelyn…"

He scowled.

"So along with _probably_ believing everything you were talking about in Women's Studies—what's the deal with the scar?" she asked with a slight smile, changing the subject before he could open his mouth to tell her to fuck off. "It's a big mystery, Jackson. _You're_ a big mystery. I've heard a hundred things—that you single-handedly busted a drug deal. That you saved some girl from getting raped. That you went ahead with that project Atkinsen rejected and got chopped up in the process. What's the real story?"

Jackson slowly put down the rest of his sandwich suddenly no longer hungry. He stared at the girl, who was very obviously _not leaving. _ He didn't know whether to be pissed off, friendly, or to hit on her.

"I like my past to be multiple choice," he said at last, half-irritated, half-amused. "That way I can pick any story I want." He thought of Donald breaking open his chin over the holidays—_best gift ever—_or the time when the old man had deliberately stepped all his weight on the boy's hand and broken a dozen of the tiny bones there. No—those were not the stories he would chose to tell. He couldn't see how they would benefit him.

Evelyn grinned though—liking his answer, he guessed. He noticed that she had pretty teeth—white, straight even. Years of dental work, he guessed. Probably expensive. He thought of his own crooked teeth, which hadn't seen a professional cleaning since before his mother died. Even when money was tight, she would always scrimp and save to make sure he got his dental check-ups, his school-clothes, his shots. A little money set aside when possible for his college-fund—_You're crazy, thinking you're high-class! What do you need college for? _Even when they were sleeping on the floor in a cold apartment with no furniture, she wanted everything right for him in the long-term. She was careful like that.

"You're starting to like me, Jackson Napier," she predicted, a kilowatt smile on her face.

"I wouldn't bet on it," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching against his better nature.

She just nodded knowingly, that grin still on her face. He noticed her hair was bouncy and shiny and dark—curly ringlets, with pretty red-gold tints. "Oh, I'd make that bet," she responded, wrinkling her nose again and winking before she walked away.

_Piglet,_ Jackson thought, a little derisively. It still wasn't cute, but maybe it wasn't so bad as he'd first thought.

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"_He's not the Batman," the Joker grinned, staring at the TV. "But my, this does liven things up a bit, doesn't it?"_

_It was too theatrical to be a real confession. And too controlled. Sure, the Batman was a _mess_ of control, but the Joker was pretty damn sure if Dent had been the one to leap out the window after his lady, he would still be sporting some sort of emotional chip on his shoulder over the near-death of his beloved. at the time, it had seemed like it _had _to be Dent—now the Joker knew with everything in him that it wasn't._

_He understood people better than that._

_Besides, the jawline was _all wrong,_ and the Joker just couldn't see Dent sporting thick black eye-makeup like the Bat did._

_But they key was the lady—he was sure of it. Maybe there was some way—_

_He looked at the goon on his left—Larry or Bob or Dick or something stupid like that. The man was big, ham-fisted—reminded him of his pops. He could _smell_ the stale sweat and booze._

_His eye twitched. It was hard to keep up when his brain was moving so fast, sometimes._

"_I'm thinking car chases, Larry," he said to the goon. "Definitely some car chases tonight. A semi, maybe. Something amusing." He grinned. "Big guns, but we know where to find those, don't we, Chuck?"_

_The goon looked around him, confused, before realizing that though the Joker had switched names, the clown was still referring to him."Uh—yes, sir," the goon—whose real name was Mason—agreed._

"_Also, oil drums," the Joker said, rubbing his hands together. He liked the sound of the leather on leather and rubbed them faster before flicking his tongue to his lip. "Lots of those. I can rig up something quick. And..the girl. We'll need the lady obviously. I'm not quite sure for what yet."_

"_Uh, sure, boss," Mason repeated. "By—by when, sir?"_

_The Joker looked at him like he was an idiot, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows incredulously. "Edward, Edward, Edward. By tonight, you twat."_

_Mason gulped. "Tonight?"_

_The Joker slung an arm around him and started walking him toward the door. "We're gonna use Harvey Dent to draw the Bat out," he said slowly, as though talking to a child._

_Mason glanced nervously at the Joker. The man was a genius with a vision that Mason could never quite see clearly ahead of time._

"_You got a plan, boss?"_

_The Joker snorted."Don't be ridiculous," he snapped, throwing the man out into the next room where the rest of the thugs and former inmates had been lounging. Now they were staring incredulously. "Of course I don't have a plan. We'll just—" he made an airy gesture with both hands "—see where it goes."_

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	2. Part II: Saint Solemnity

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Part II: Saint Solemnity**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. ******

**A/N: The Big Romance. I dislike having this split as chapters and may repost it as a whole later…it's really intended to function as a sketch/glimpse into various points of The Joker's life, and to examine the pieces that have made him. We'll see if it turns out satisfactorily.**

**Thanks a million, by the way, to all who have favorite this or put it on their Alerts list. I am touched and surprised, since this is hardly up-to-par writing—too choppy, really, more like a stream of thought. I imagine this being told orally, to be honest—and am surprised it's not (apparently) over-difficult to read. It was intended just for fun, and I'm really very flattered. **

**To those of you who are new to **_**The Magic Trick**_**, again I say: just for fun, and please don't be mean! :)**

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_The Joker stared at Ramirez. "Why is this so hard to understand, sugar?"_

_The Latina cop worried her lip with her teeth, staring at the madman as he licked his lips, searching for blood. "Don't—please don't pull me in this."_

_A nasty grin lit up his face. "But you're already in it, aren't you, gorgeous? You've been Maroni's since—what? You were fifteen? All because of your pretty mother." His eyes lit a little and he snickered. "I could threaten to tell Maroni you've lost loyalty to the Family, and I'm sure he'd be pissed, after paying all those medical bills. But let's face it, I've never been the tattling type."_

_He was on her before she could blink, a paring knife wedged into her cheek. Horrified, she tried to move, but couldn't—partially because he was _so damn strong,_ and partially because she was just terrified. _

"_Now Maroni promised me you'd be here to do anything I needed, so long as I didn't lose his inside 'man.'" He seemed to find this funny and chuckled. "Tell me, precious—are you a woman of your word?"_

_She trembled against him and for a second he savored the feeling. "Na-ta-ta-ta-ta. Don't get all upset." He wiggled the knife gently. "You want to know how I got these scars, gorgeous?"_

_She didn't move, but a whimper escaped her mouth. _

"_I lived alone with my mother till I was ten. She was in and out of hospitals—like yours—all my life. Real sick. I loved her with every bit of me."_

_A ribbon of helpless drool spilled from the corner of Ramirez's taut cheek. The Joker's lip curled in disgust, but he ignored it._

"_Then, some—_madman—_decided to bomb the hospital she was in. Almost everyone died, and those that were injured had no place to go." His voice was a low growl. "My mother's guts were everywhere. Her face was torn clean-off."_

_He chuckled and eased his grip a little, carefully removing the blade from Ramirez' mouth, but not releasing her. "I was in orphanages and foster homes my whole life. At one of them, our foster father—his name was Donald, and fuck-all if he wasn't a mean son-of-a-gun—decided he didn't like the look of me. I was too serious, too sad. So one day, while he was beating a little girl, I stepped in and sassed back, told him to leave her alone. So he did this." He presented one side of his scarred face to her. "And this." The other side. "I bet your mom is real sad, you leaving her all alone at Gotham General in that dingy suite next to the guy with the gangrene in his foot." Ramirez' eyes widened. " Maybe I should go visit her for you, send your regards. Maybe I can put a smile on her face."_

"_I'll do—whatever you want—" Ramirez gasped out, her eyes trembling with unshed tears._

"_Get the lady," he growled, and shoved her away from him. She stumbled and landed on her rear on the pavement, looking horrified and scared. He started to walk away, then turned back and stared at her meaningfully. "Your mother will be your downfall," he said solemnly, as though imparting some great wisdom. She didn't even seem to process the comment._

_When he turned away again, she suddenly said, "Please—will you hurt her?"_

_He grinned, his back still to the woman sitting on the concrete, and kept walking. "Who knows?"He looked at a beautiful, sad-eyed brunette. She was walking by his side, silent, while Ramirez sniffled and cried on the cracked pavement behind them. "Who knows?" he asked her._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You again?" Jackson glowered, staring at the girl who had once again set herself down on the bench across from him. Edie? Emma? Piglet? Something like that. It didn't matter; he was going to have to find a new place to eat his lunch between classes. He was not a fan of the overcrowded cafeteria, nor of his roommate who drank every night. The other boy was a dirty slob with a dull-witted and pervy sense of humor, and often experimented with various drugs in their room. Jackson had no desire to hang around there, and he had no desire to have this strange girl for company. She was probably just fascinatd by his scars.

"Yep, me again," the girl responded with a grin. Her hair was pulled back today, fresh curls escaping her pony tail and haloing her face. "You've got that look on your face again, by the way."

"What look is that?" he asked, amused in spite of himself.

She reached out before he could think and traced a light, cool finger between his furrowed brows. "So serious," she murmured, sounding a little sad.

His hand flew up and gripped her wrist as he stared at her. His grip was tight enough that he could feel her bones creak, and she winced but didn't move. The line between his brows tingled, like he could still feel her fingers there. He tried to remember the last time a girl had touched him willingly and failed. He thought about the times his mother had held him, but those memories were so long ago that they all blurred together and he couldn't tell, for sure, what was real and what was not. "You probably shouldn't touch someone without asking first," he snapped after a moment, almost flinging her wrist away.

"Can I touch you?" the girl—_Evelyn,_ he remembered suddenly—asked with an impish smile.

Jackson's lips twitched. he sensation was unfamiliar, but he had to admit he was intrigued by her sass.

"Are you coming on to me?" he snickered.

Evelyn just grinned back though, not taking any offense to his derisive tone of voice. "Damn straight," she teased, and for a second it took a concentrated effort not to let his jaw drop. Instead, he looked down at his sandwich and licked his lips nervously, having just lost his appetite and trying not to look like a total loser.

Evie got up. _That's it,_ he thought, more than a little bitter. _She's leaving now. Idiot._ He didn't know if the last bit was directed at her or himself.

But Evie Harris simply held out a hand to him, beckoning, and said, "Come on."

He blinked. "Huh?" Again, he licked his lip. He could almost taste the blood.

She smiled, slowly this time, and it blossomed over her face like a fresh dawn. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and gentle, more gentle than anything he thought he'd ever heard.

"Come away with me."

A flutter of magic uncurled in him, and without thinking twice, he reached out and took her hand. "Where are we going?" he asked, and she smiled again, her fingers tightening on his, lacing through.

"Does it matter?" she asked.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was mild for March—it felt like late April, in fact. They were sitting on a bench at the farthest corner of campus, by the lake, and she was asking him questions—why did he choose to come to this school (scholarship, of course), what his majors and minors were (chemistry/engineering and psychology, respectively)—and why. She asked where he roomed, what he liked, his favorite kind of music and foods. Sometimes he would give her the truth, and sometimes he gave her answers so outrageous that she laughed—and he decided that he liked her laugh. Liked it a lot. It was honest and loud and straight-forward, not some simpering giggle meant to flirt or offend. He knew when she laughed that she wasn't laughing at him.

Also, when she laughed, she threw back her head to do it, and all that gorgeous hair would fall around the white column of her throat and he'd think briefly of pressing his lips there, or to the space between her collarbones. Beautiful. Then he'd touch the still-red scar, puckered and painful-looking on his lower lip and upper-chin, and that definitely squashed any fantasies he may have entertained about running his mouth over her. Instead, he imagined briefly—_a knife stabbed upward through the bottom of her chin, a line of red, her neck snapping in a flash of white heat—_

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked, her voice light and teasing as she stretched out her legs next to his. She was wearing jeans and gray legwarmers and little ballet-flats with silver hearts. Even through the denim and wool he could see the shape of her strong, pretty calves and delicate ankles. He looked down at his own legs and feet—dark, close-fitting pinstripe pants with converse sneakers and purple laces. His legs looked like sticks compared to hers. He thought of Dave Monroe, with thick, branch-like arms and a stupid rippling six-pack he liked to show off by wandering the dorms without his shirt. He suddenly found himself imagining Evelyn on the kid's arm, looking blissful and ignorant—and then imagined them ten years from now, when Dave had a beer-gut and liked to hit things like his father.

His hands tightened on his knees. "I just want to do something I'm good at, and do it well, and enjoy it," he explained after a moment. "I don't know what that is yet. Probably something related to chemistry, but not teaching. Probably not research. Something I can get my hands into—make stuff. Hence the engineering, too."

"Something tangible," she stated. It was a guess, but not really—she knew what he meant, and he nodded. "And money means nothing...?"

His face fell into a frown before she even knew what happened. "I don't care about money," he snapped. "Pretty much all money is dirty. I just want to do what I do well, and do it with class."

Evie filed that away. Their friendship was still too new to push _that_ particular envelope just yet. "So what about the psych minor? You thinking of being a counselor?" Her lip curled into a now-familiar grin. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I think you're the type who could do anything you set your mind to—but it's hard to imagine you having patience with some of the people out there."

For a moment, Jackson started—it was the first time he could remember anyone voicing a faith in his abilities. Then he relaxed and grinned back, certain she was not mocking him. It was a real smile, for the first time. He said, "Nah. I just do that for fun. Like to figure out how people work, what makes them tick."

She snickered, thinking of their Women's Studies class. "You're good at that," she teased. "Good at pressing buttons."

For a moment he let himself think briefly about pressing _her_ button. It made his toes tingle.

It also alarmed him, that he could go from thinking about backhanding her to making her arch in ecstasy against him, all in a matter of a single second.

She was gazing at him, looking amused and wistful. "You know what I think?"

He made a noncommittal grunt. "You think?" he asked, as though it were a surprise.

She swatted his arm playfully, and he jolted at the harmlessness of the action. It was almost—affectionate. "I think you worry too much," she said, her mouth curved gently and her eyes shining as she looked at him. It was like she was drinking him in, scars and all. Her finger reached out for the second time that day, skating the furrows of his brow, down his nose, over his lips to the scar on his chin. "You should smile more. You have a gorgeous smile."

For a moment he stiffened. The aforementioned smile had disappeared entirely. He felt awkward again, and angry at his awkwardness. "Whatever," he glowered, licking his upper lip when she took her hand away.

Evie didn't let it phase her though. She just smiled and turned the conversation around, asking him another inane question that he couldn't help but answer.

It was dusk and starting to get about as cold as March could be before they stopped talking and headed back to the dorms. She took his hand again and he was startled by how cold it was—pale and blotched with red. He himself was like a furnace, radiating heat, and where her chilled little fingers touched him he thought he could feel the imprint for hours. He imagined, for a second, breaking her fingers in his grip, and then the moment was gone. She said goodbye outside of his building, wrinkling her nose and teasing him about continuing to harass and stalk him in the near future. He just kind of smiled and thought that her scrunched up nose was actually kind of cute.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Months passed. Spending time together became a regular thing. Lunch most days, and dinner when they couldn't. Hours spent out by the pond or crashing in one of the lounges and watching movies. He didn't like his roommate enough to invite her over—could just imagine the jackass saying something vile and offensive—and he didn't like her roommate enough to go over, so they met in the middle somewhere and munched on popcorn all night. At some point or another, she'd started touching him again—more than just his hand. When he was thinking deep thoughts that had his brows furrowed, she would come up and smooth them away with her fingertips. Sometimes he'd sit on the floor in front of her and she'd comb her fingers through his hair. The first time it startled the hell out of him and he'd almost crushed her fingers, but he'd gotten used to it—the soft pull of her grasp on his hair, the gentle massaging on his scalp. She eased his tension away.

He realized, at some point, that he knew nothing about her. Nothing he hadn't seen, anyway. She was popular, he figured, and she radiated confidence. She laughed a lot—more than he thought was possible for one person. Almost anything could make her laugh—even the most simple of moments. She found humor in strange places. She was genuinely interested in the people around her—he figured that made them feel important and was probably why they liked her so much.

So he did some reconnaissance. He had figured her for popular—lots of kids knew her, even if he didn't really see them hanging out. And he found out that she _was_ popular—just not in the traditional sense. She didn't go to parties or anything—was more apt to stay in her room reading or go for a walk if it came to that…or watch a movie with him. But people knew who she was, respected her, thought she was smart and clever and funny. They came to her with their troubles, or when they just needed to talk over a cup of hot cocoa, which she was always happy to make for them. Yeah, some people didn't like her—thought she was no fun, or too much of a hardass because she _expected _things from people. Things like decency and respect, courtesy. A modicrum of intelligence. She didn't back down and expected you to do things right, or ask for help. Not half-ass stuff.

He liked it. And he was fast growing to like her—maybe even as more than "someone to hang out with" (because he still wasn't sure she was a friend, wasn't even sure he knew what a friend was supposed to be). For the first time in his life, he thought maybe he could tell someone things…especially when he thought of her skinny little fingers combing through his burnished hair, or the pale line of her throat.

When her birthday came up, he sat in front of a mirror for an hour, trying to look his best and thanking whoever was listening that his roommate was gone. He liked what he saw there, in spite of the scar—his eyes looked warmer than he'd ever seen them, almost sparkling, and his lips were full and strong and unchapped, since he had somehow forgotten his long-lost habit of licking them nervously. He figured with Evie, he was comfortable—safe—and the anxious twitch had faded into nothing as his happiness grew.

"I pay homage to the gods of chaos," he had said mockingly, once. He couldn't remember why.

She had traced the tight, serious furrows in his brows with sad fingers. "Here I thought you were asking for intervention from the saints of solemnity." She'd said it reverently, and for a split-second, he'd trembled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd trembled in quite such a way. He decided then he never wanted anything dark to touch this corner of his life.

For a few weeks, he'd been afraid to lay a hand on her.

Of course she had shattered his lofty and noble goals soon enough, always curling next to him, touching his face and hair, teasing him. He almost became as physically affectionate as she did—though his touch was infinitely lighter, more careful. He was very aware of how easily he could accidentally break her.

She seemed unbreakable, though. Unshakeable. He couldn't get rid of her, even when he was attacked by a sense of conscience or fear and tried to alienate her. She was staying. She wasn't leaving him. She wouldn't even hear of it.

In response, in—_gratitude, _perhaps—he had big plans for this night, the celebration of her birth. Simple, but elegant, he thought. Classy. For a moment he imagined his father—younger, smiling, clean, happy—courting his mother, and desperately in love. Well this—this thing, with Evie—it might not last forever, and it might not be love, not yet…but he would be damned if he'd let it end in tragedy or bitterness.

He chuckled and combed through his hair one last time before straightening his collar and throwing on his pea-coat. Someone knocked on the door—he knew it was Evelyn. Throwing it open, he grinned down down at her pretty, upturned face.

"Why, hello, beautiful."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"_Call up that other fella," the Joker said suddenly, right before he swung himself into the semi. He'd been tickled when the boys found one that said "Laughter is the best medicine" and had fancied it up with a hastily-scrawled "S" in spray paint. The brunette woman was behind him, looking just as amused at the "s" as he was._

Slaughter.

"_Uh—what other fellow, sir?" one of the thugs asked, looking both confused and nervous. The anxiety increased when the Joker turned to look at him like he was stupid, licking his lip in a way that signaled impending danger. _

"_The one. Who was close. To Gordon," he said slowly, almost spitting the last word. "Do I have to do everything myself?"he asked the dark-haired lady next to him. She looked conflicted, but smiled encouragingly anyway._

"_Wuertz?"another asked, cringing when the Joker's sunken eyes met his. _

"_Yeah. Whatever," the madman said offhandedly, as though he couldn't be bothered with such trivial details. "Call him up and tell him that if Harvey Dent lives through this, he's gotta be the one to pick him up. Gonna take him to the warehouse."_

"_The one the girl's gonna be at? At Avenue X?" _

"_Don't be an idiot, Steve," the Joker responded jovially. _

_The henchman looked down at his old work shirt, which was clearly labeled "Rick."_

"_Have Wuertz take Dent to the other site. Ummmm, and you—Jonathon—" The Joker pointed at a new guy, whose name was Alex._

"_Alex," the new guy corrected, completely oblivious_

_The Joker paused, stared, and then—simply, lazily, dismissively—without even looking—he shot the man. _

"_Jonathon," he repeated, turning back to Rick, "you go back and get more barrels of oil. There's a detonation device already at the site in one of the back cupboards—hook it up. Be ready to rig Harvey to it. Set it to go off at the same time as the lady's."_

_The men looked at each other. The Joker obviously was intended to drag out this streetfight scene for as long as he could—for kicks—but that didn't mean it would be easy for them to get all this done in time. It didn't matter though—most of them were used to, by now, working without a plan and catering quickly to the Joker's whims._

_The madman just looked at the semi's sliding door again and chuckled. "Slaughter," he echoed, shaking his head and grinning at the lady next to him. "That's a good one."_

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	3. Part III: Scars We Bear

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Part III: Scars We Bear**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. ******

**A/N: Ironically, March is Women's Month, and April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. One in four women will be report being raped to the authorities. Nine out of ten will report being assaulted to a friend. Most assaults are perpetuated by people the victim knows—not strangers. If you or someone you know, male or female, has been assaulted, there are places to go or numbers to call to find help. Please know that there are people who will support you and advocate for you, who will understand on some level. In spite of how it may **_**feel**_** to be victimized in this way—a mentality I tried to project through this chapter—it is **_**never**_** your fault.**

**Easter Egg: There's a line lifted/paraphrased from Madeline L'Engle's novel, **_**Many Waters.**_** Find it and you get a cookie!**

**Thanks for your support in reading this fanfic, and remember—don't be mean! :)**

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Where did you learn to do this?" Evie squealed, grinning when he plucked a silver dollar from her ear. It joined two others in her hand, and she began patting him everywhere, trying to figure out where he stashed them. He grinned at the feel of her hands over his body, even if it was in relative innocence.

"I don't have anymore," he laughed in mock surrender, holding up his hands as she eyed him critically.

"No," she agreed, her brows furrowed. "I don't think you do."

"But you—" he added, and pulled a fourth dollar from behind her ear.

"Ahhh!" she growl-screamed in frustration, snatching it from his fingertips. "How did you—? Where did you learn to do this?"

He grinned freely now. "My mother taught me," he confessed. "When I was little. She used to do it all the time."

His mother. She always wanted to ask, but didn't dare—he was touchy about the subject. Evelyn figured he'd come clean when he was ready.

"Can you make things disappear, too?" she asked, wide-eyed.

He grinned. "Well, you know, small things. Silver dollars, pencils, erasers—baby elephants."

She laughed her loud, free laugh, and he smiled again, leaning back on the grass with his arms tucked behind his head, looking at the stars. She bellowed her laughter. She snorted sometimes. It was not a cute laugh, what she had. It was not a beautiful laugh.

Whatever Evie Harris had, it was better than beautifulness.

"This is the best birthday ever," Evie informed him, throwing herself down beside him and staring up at the sky. She was clutching his gift to her—a slim book of poetry by e.e. cummings. "'I would rather teach one bird to sing than teach a hundred stars how not to dance,'" she quoted, grabbing Jackson's discarded pea-coat. She curled up in it, then huddled into his shoulder on the grass, staring at the sky and wrapping her arms around him.

Her heat seeped into his skin through the coat.

Jackson grinned in the darkness. "Happy birthday, me," he cheered quietly, chuckling when she socked him lightly in the side.

"It's _my_ birthday, kid," she mock-scowled, teasing him.

"Ah," he responded with a grin. "Here I thought I was the one getting a gift."

She pressed a light, slow kiss to his shoulder, smiling as she did so. "Just wait till your birthday," she murmured, her voice sultry.

Jackson blinked, glad he was half-turned away from her. His face felt hot, and he realized after a moment that he might be blushing. After a moment, he asked The Question, feeling like an idiot.

"Are we—are we dating?"

She blinked, then laid her head back down on the blanket he'd brought out.

"Why do you like me, Jackson?"

He turned to stare at her. Was this some stupid girl-game he'd stumbled into? A test? He momentarily hated himself for even asking. In his coldest voice, he asked, "Are you joking?"

She rolled herself onto her stomach so she could look down at him, and grabbed a chocolate-covered raisin from the bag he'd brought. They were her favorites.

"Only a little," she said, then laughed. "No, not really. Not at all. Tell me."

He scowled and started to get up to leave—"I don't have time for this shit"—but her fingers caught at his sleeve and tugged him back down.

"I liked you the moment I met you," she whispered, laying her russet curls on his chest. The shirt was charcoal with purple pinstripes—she'd told him once that he looked "dashing" in it. "I didn't know then what it would become—I just knew you were _fascinating._ You were clever and isolated and sarcastic, and you liked to egg people on, and I was determined to egg you right back. You know how stubborn I am." she laughed. "Pigheaded."

He was quiet, his breath locked in his lungs.

"And then…I got to know you." She smiled, her eyes on something faraway, something that wasn't the stars. "And I _still_ like you for all those reasons. But I also like you because you know what's important to you, and who is important to you. You don't dick around with the pointless stuff that a lot of kids our age do. You're willing to see where life takes you, without having to control everything, and you don't try to control _me_. I don't know much about your life, but I know you've _seen_ things. And nothing seems to scare you—you're brave."

She reached out one slim, chilled little finger, and traced the wreckage of his chin and lower lip. He sucked in a breath, startled by the tenderness of her hand on his scars.

"—And strong. You're _so_ strong. And witty, and clever. You pay attention to what you see, and you listen to what you hear. I think all these things are not common, and to find them all in one person—" she shook her head. He watched the nest of curls on his chest tremble, a net of starlight. "Pigheadedness is one of my worst flaws. I've never been happier for it."

A lump formed in his throat as he tried to relax. He let his arm slide up around her shoulders, feeling a little ashamed of the way he had acted. This was exactly an example of what he had come to so appreciate—_maybe even adore—_about Evelyn. She was free and open and honest, even when it made her vulnerable. He thought, conversely, there was a strength to that, and a power he couldn't touch—that she was so easily able to rant race to others, to love them openly and for exactly what they were, without false grandeur or illusions. He was a little afraid it might kill her in the end.

Jackson's jaw worked, words trying to force their way from his throat. "I like that you're stubborn," he said at last, trying for a teasing tone. It came out solemn instead—almost heartbroken. "I'm glad you are." He cleared his throat and tried again, but it didn't make a difference. "I—I've never met anyone like you," he said at last, his voice gravelly and low. Speaking like this—to make himself vulnerable, like her—it was hard for him. But he thought it was more than fair. "The way you treat people, even when you don't really like them—invite them into your life. The way you're so—generous—with your affection. I've never had that—or, well, I had it once, but I don't really remember it. I don't know anyone who so freely gives it. You're always ready for adventure, and people are important to you—not just what they say, but what they do and who they are. You…are constantly challenging me to—to think more, to look deeper, to be…_better._" He smirked a little. "You're a classy lady."

He could almost feel her blush through the fabric. "Really?" she said, her voice sounding small.

He was amazed at his own patience. Normally, he would have been irritated by such—well, _neediness._ But not with Evie. If he was entirely honest, he would have to admit he needed her just as much—needed her to feel human, and real. To belong.

There was a long, quiet moment. He shifted, nudging her upward till she lifted her head to look at him. He wanted to make eye contact, wanted her to understand. Just for a moment, his mind flashed to thought of snapping her neck. It would be easy. Relatively painless. His mind shied away from the thought of hurting her, but the image was still there.

"My life—the things I've 'seen'—a lot of them aren't pretty. Sometimes I look at you…" Jackson said, his fingers twitching on her cheeks. "…and all I can think is how easy it would be to hurt you."

She lay still, her face resting trustingly in his fingertips, and didn't move at all.

"But I wouldn't," he said quietly, with more certainty than he'd ever experienced in his entire life. "I would never." His fingers skated over her cheekbones. His thumbs coasted her brows and swept gently over her eyelids when they fluttered closed.

"I'd look out for you better than I look out for myself. And Evelyn—I _always_ look out for myself."

She dropped a kiss on his chin, and he could feel the heat all the way in his lips. "That was what I needed to hear," she whispered.

He looked at her questioningly. There was still a lot, it seemed, that he didn't know about her.

Her lips twitched when he continued to stare at her, eyes expectant. A tiny smile curled her lip. "My family life wasn't that bad," she explained with a self-deprecating little smile. "My parents loved me, and they weren't divorced or anything. But they expected a lot, and I never wanted to fail those expectations." She gnawed her lower lip slowly. Jackson wanted to say something but bit his tongue, waiting as she mulled over her words.

"When I was thirteen," she said at last, quietly, "a boy from the high school tried to rape me in the locker room. He cut me up good—in places I'm not ready to show you. Actually, most of the scars have faded by now—I was young enough that they healed pretty nicely. But it scared the hell out of me. He held a switchblade a half-inch from my eye and told me that if I screamed, he would…'shove the knife into my eyeball and rip it out of my skull.'" She chuckled a little, but it was a lost sound, and her smile was mocking and sad. "I bit his lip clean through and kneed him in the groin, and I got away; ran into a bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I bled for hours. I think I might have cracked some ribs. I was torn up pretty bad."

She smiled again. "I was _lucky_."

His hand swept her back without thinking about it as he imagined it—some ham-fisted boy like his father, beating on her frail, pale body. Thirteen, and bloody, and terrified in a bathroom stall.

"Anyway, there were others—after that. Guys who got aggressive with me. I think, maybe…because I'm so little? And…plump? I don't look tough. I don't know. Anyway—I learned how to protect myself, or at least how make them second-guess whether I was an easy target or not. I smashed one guy in the face with a phone receiver at a party. I stabbed another in the arm with a pencil while I was walking back from the library one night, and one time…One time I got backhanded so hard I was airborne. When he came and leaned over me, I kicked him in the chest—broke his collarbone. I always have had to be on the lookout—in parking lots, in grocery stores. There was one guy who tried to grope me at WalMart—I twisted his arm behind his back and then let him go and reported him to Customer Service. Security escorted him out. Another time, in a grocery store parking lot, three guys cornered me between my mom's minivan and a pick-up truck. Luckily, the car across the way turned their headlights on and they left."

Jackson couldn't breathe. "Your parents?" he asked after a moment. They had to have noticed—said something. This girl, thirteen, coming home from gym with her kid-body all cut up and bruised.

She shook her head and looked up at the sky. "I couldn't tell them. And nothing—too bad—had happened yet."

He gritted his teeth. "Yet?" he echoed, his voice a dangerous whisper.

But Evelyn wasn't scared—not of him, not now. "I met a boy and started dating him," she whispered back after a moment. Her voice was reedy in the cool night air. "His name was Alex. He seemed to understand everything when I told him how nervous I was about dating someone, about being in a relationship with a man. He said it didn't make a difference, and it didn't matter to him.

"One night, I was sick in bed, and feeling crappy. I said to him, 'Come sleep with me,' and he laughed and said, 'I don't think we're ready for that.' I laughed too, and agreed—because he was right. I didn't know if I'd ever be ready for that.

"We talked about it, seriously and clearly, that night. I wasn't ready for that—I wanted to wait till marriage. And our relationship was fairly new, and we were young. And besides, I wasn't on any sort of birth control whatsoever."

He felt a slight shudder rack her body and she grinned up at him. "God, Jackson, I am so stupid. It's a funny story, actually."

"Na-ta-ta-ta-ta," he hushed her, gently. "What happened?"

She bit her lip, still smiling sardonically, and pulled her eyes away to look into the distance. "Not even a full day later, we were fooling around—and suddenly, there was pain—like when you pull a muscle, burning, almost—and he was inside me, and I—god, I'm dumb. I didn't know what was going on. I couldn't—process—what was happening. And then he finished, and I was kind of in shock—because hadn't we just discussed this? And hadn't I made it clear that I didn't…_want_ that, not yet? And what had I done to make him think I'd changed my mind?"

Jackson had to try consciously not to tighten his hands on her—his best friend, his maybe-girlfriend, the only one who _really_ seemed to genuinely care about him. Alex-something, right? He'd kill him. He'd find him, and he'd kill him. Rip his fucking balls off. Shoot him point-blank. Cut a line from his rib-cage to his cock and make him watch his organs fall out.

Evie was still, silent, pensive. A bemused smile was still on her face. _Funny story,_ she'd said. So far he had yet to see the humor.

"We talked later that night. I told him we couldn't do that anymore, no matter what, no matter what." She drew in a shaky breath and chuckled. "And he agreed, of course, and said yes, and even pointed out some of his own reasons why we—couldn't. But then when he came to visit the next week—and the next—it happened again. And again. No matter what I said, no matter how I tried to tell him no. And I was too stupid, and too accustomed to violence, to understand that what he was doing was rape. He didn't stop except one time when I actually started crying while he was—over me. I don't cry easily, or often. It was the first time he'd seen it, I think—and for a second, it shocked him into acting like a real person."

"What happened?" Jackson asked after a long moment, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. It scraped on his throat painfully.

She laughed, softly, dryly. "I couldn't tell anyone—I didn't fully understand what was going on myself. Denial, I guess. It was easy to fake myself out—he never once hit me, or used brute violence. He just—did what he wanted to do, every time I thought I could trust him. And my parents—I thought they might have understood if it had happened once, or twice, maybe even a few times. But by the time I figured out, really, what was happening—that I could be raped without being cut, or beaten, or cornered in a locker room or parking lot, by men I didn't know—it had been almost two years, and I'd given up. How could I tell anyone that?" She shrugged, smirking at her own perceived stupidity. "It took another six months for me to get out, and I haven't really looked at another guy since."

"Till me," Jackson said slowly, understanding a bit at a time. His brain was moving too quickly for him to process things completely—a fault of his, he knew. He was already thinking about how he'd find Alex, how he'd kill him, how he would spend every day of his time with Evie making her feel loved, being careful with her—a hundred things at once. The rest of him didn't work that fast.

"Till you," she agreed with a smile. Then—"I'm still stupid, Jackson. I've come to the painful conclusion that I'll never get any smarter. Naïve. People I love, friends, family—I will believe them, and believe _in_ them, without hesitation or reservation. I put my own needs on the back-burner. I have recognized that I do this, and that it's not healthy, but so help me if I can't seem to stop." Her smile became mocking again, almost bitter. "In order to try to regain—some measure of self-preservation—I've decided not to let myself get close to someone unless I know they're the type who will look out for me, who will make sure I'm doing right by myself. It's a narrow line to walk, but I've realized my tendency toward…well, for lack of a better term…battered women's syndrome."

His throat worked. "You chose me." He thought of Donald, and his mother. He thought of growing up, and how he'd never felt like he belonged to anything, or like anything belonged to him. He thought, for the first time, _This is what it feels like to have someone trust you,_ to be responsible for someone else's well-being, to watch someone's back and know they're watching yours.

She looked embarrassed and ashamed. "Maybe it's not fair—"

He caught her wrist when she started to rise. "It's not _fair_," he interrupted. "It's _more_…more than I—than I ever could have expected, or asked for."

She was giving him her vulnerability. Handing it over—a gift. All that trust. He vowed suddenly, ferociously, that he would never betray that.

"It's been a long time since I was romantic with anyone," she whispered. He almost didn't catch it; he was promising himself so fiercely that he would do right by her. "Years, as a matter of fact. And then—just Alex. I'm not sure I even know how to _be_ a…a girlfriend, or whatever. And I might get scared sometimes, or nervous, and you have to know it's not because of you."

There was a long silence. "It does make a difference," Jackson said at last. "Whatever that fucker_…Alex_…said…obviously he was a fucking—" Jackson choked off, unable to find a suitable word. "What he said, about your—past—not making a difference…? He was _wrong."_ He tried to swallow. "This changes _everything." _

She flinched a little but then continued to look at him evenly, waiting patiently for him to continue, but he was almost at a loss.

"You're even stronger than I thought you were," he whispered at last, his voice rumbling in his chest, through the pea-coat, and into her own. "You're braver. You wake up every morning with a smile still on your face, laughing at life—"

She shrugged. "Flippancy is my best defense."

"Don't make light of this!" he snapped, grasping her chin and forcing her to look at him. "It _isn't_ some 'funny story!'"

She sighed, sounding sad again, and ran her finger gently over his brow, smoothing it. "So serious," she murmured gently. "I'm with you though, now, so it's all right," she soothed. "You'll never hurt me."

"Never," he agreed fiercely. "I'm a man of my word."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"_You're going to have to play my little game. If you want to save…one of them." The Joker licked his lips._

_The Batman froze, and for a moment—just the briefest slice of time—the interrogation room was still and quiet. "One of them?"_

"_You know, for a while there, I thought you really were Dent," the Joker grinned, hanging onto the Batman's wrists so he could gain a little leverage for his throat. He let his eyes go dreamy and soft, like he was watching a faraway romance film. "The way you _threw_ yourself after her—"_

_Comprehension dawned in the Bat's dark eyes, and he flung the Joker into the interrogation table as hard as he could._

_The Joker choked on his own breathless laughter. "Look at you go!" he cheered, exhilarated. "Does Harvey know about you and his little bunny?"_

"_Where are they?" the Batman bellowed. _

"_Killing is making a choice," the Joker tried to explain in his most reasonable tone of voice, as though outlining something to a particularly slow child._

"Where are they?"_ the Batman howled again, his voice a guttural scream. _

"_To choose between one life or the other," the Joker continued, as though he hadn't just been flung into a wall. He wanted to make sure he got this out before the Bat broke his jaw—wanted to make sure he _understood._ "Your friend, the district attorney, or—" here he snickered, unable to contain himself "—his blushing bride to be." _

_The Batman's fist slammed into his face, and this time, when the Joker licked his lips between shouts of laughter, he really _could_ taste the blood. He couldn't really register pain anymore. Between the scars of his face, the tissue being pulled and broken every day, every time he spoke—not to mention the hundreds of other damages his body had endured—every living moment was pain .Being struck in the face meant nothing…which was kind of funny, since physical prowess and fancy gadgets were really the only things the Bat had on his side._

_It was hilarious, really. _

"_Y—you," the Joker gasped between laughs, "you have nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to do—with all your strength." He pulled on an expression of mock-sympathy, his body still shaking with laughter. _

_Gasping and grunting for air—unable to think, to_ breathe, _when feeling so helpless and out-of-control—_and the damn Joker mocking him for it—_the Batman pulled him up by the collar, ready to rip the information out of him._

"_Don't—don't worry," the Joker broke in, almost soothingly. "I'll tell you where they are…and that's the _point."

_The Batman stilled, his breathing labored, sweat shining on his jaw and upper lip. _

"_You'll have to choose."_

_The Joker waited a brief second for comprehension to dawn. He saw the Bat's eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. _

"_He's at…Two-hundred-and-fifty, fifty-second street. And she's at…" the Joker faked an uncertain expression, licking the blood from his red-painted lips. "On Avenue X, at Cicero."_

_The Batman slammed him back to ground, and the Joker dissolved in laughter. "Hmmm," he said to the Lady standing beside him, looking sad, moving her fingers toward his abused face. She smelled like summer, heat, and wild corn. She smelled like the wild honeysuckle that had bloomed beside a house he'd known once. "It's _always_ about a lady."He grinned again, his mouth peeling back from his teeth as laughter bubbled up again._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	4. Part IV: Jack of Knives

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Part IV: Jack of Knives**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. :)**

**A/N: Again, my ignorance rears its ugly head. I have no idea the legalities of a case as illustrated below…I am completely making it up as I go. Also, please forgive if this chapter isn't up to par—I spent the last week away so I haven't had a whole lot of time to develop this more thoroughly.**

**You know the drill: don't be mean! :)**

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_When the MCU was blown to pieces, the Joker was just intending to leave. He didn't know that his schizophrenic little friend—_Jon? Jim? Harry?—_with the voices would be arrested. When he'd originally planted the phone bomb in the man's stomach, it had really just been a whim, just to see if he _could.

_Luck worked like that for him, sometimes. Chaos, fate. He supposed it was nature's way of making up for all the things it _took.

_The Lady danced on the periphery of his vision, her brown curls swirling, spraying stars and sparkling drops of water._

_It was_ _certainly _fair.

_He scowled angrily at that thought and strolled through the MCU when—unexpectedly, pleasantly, his eyes landed on Lau. He glowered into the cell where the accountant sat, frail and fragile, clutching weakly at the cage bars. _

_The Joker plucked the keys from an unconscious guard, bemused, and then jangled them at Lau, a little more viciously than usual. The man was pale and greasy as cheese, and soft-limbed as a girl. The Joker eyed him in distaste._

"_Hello there," he said nastily._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Summer was too long, in Jackson's opinion. He should have gotten a job on campus, he realized in retrospect. He hadn't thought about it at the time—_silly, really, but Evelyn did that to him—_but he could easily have gotten a job doing summer research for the science department.

He mostly just tried to stay out of Donald's way. It was relatively easy—Donald was drunker than ever, and had gotten used to the boy not being at home. Half the time, he forgot the kid was even there.

So Jackson worked at a nearby auto repair shop. He came home and went to his room. He thought about Evelyn and what she was doing, the way she smiled, made him laugh. Her fingers smoothing his forehead gently. Her murmured words: "So serious…"

The memory alone made him smile.

Which was how his father found him one day when the old man was drunk and angry—smiling wistfully on his back on the bed, looking happy—_too damn happy._

"What's got that stupid smile on your face, Jacko?" Donald slurred. His eyes were narrow and dark and mean, like a pig's.

The smile fell away. "You smell foul, Don," Jackson said sharply, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the brute. Time away at school had made him too comfortable. "Go shower."

Donald lurched forward with new purpose. At the last second, Jackson's eyes flew open and he scrambled back, but he was too late—the fist caught him square in the nose. He heard it crunch. Pain blossomed like fireworks. His vision spotted, grayed out as he tumbled off the bed, wrenching his ankle in the process and banging his head on the corner of the nightstand.

Donald advanced again. "How can you be so happy when your mother is _dead?"_ Donald bellowed. "How? How? _How?_ You ungrateful little swine—"

Blindly, Jackson moved backward, bumping into the wall as Donald Napier lashed out again. The blow caught him in the jaw, and something snapped where the contact was made. Blood flowered in his mouth and he gagged on the pain—which only made his jaw hurt more. He thought he was going to vomit, and his vision blurred in and out. He scrambled to his knees, trying to get past the old man, but Donald's boot caught him in the shelf of his hip and sent him crashing against the wall. The back of his head, already bloodied from the end-table, sent red splashing over the wall and he nearly passed out again before her felt something clamp on his neck and slam him against the wall once more.

His feet scrambled for purchase on the floor and he clutched his father's wrists, struggling to breathe, bile rising in his throat from the pain in his face and jaw. He saw himself, six years old, riding on his dad's broad, clean-shoulders while his mother brought them lemonade—

"Don," he rasped, his voice scratchy. Blood sprayed onto his father's face. "Dad—"

The fist tightened. White gathered at the edges of Jackson's vision and suddenly, clearly, he saw the rivulets of sweat on his father's face. He saw the throbbing vein in Donald's thick throat and felt his own heartbeat in his ears. His hand—which was numb, and he didn't know why—slipped into the waistband of his jeans. He felt the satiny wooden handle of the switchblade under his sweaty fingers and—without thinking—he popped the knife and reached across his body, slicing quickly and raggedly across his father's throat.

Donald Napier gurgled and fell back, releasing Jackson's neck. He slumped down, eyes wide, while Jackson coughed and vomited until there was nothing left inside him.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Late August. Hot air. Students back on campus—move-in day.

Evelyn.

Jackson sat on the bench and waited, his face carefully turned. He had an open textbook on his lap, but he wasn't reading it. Instead, he was trying to figure out how he was going to tell her this, and would she look at him differently, and would he ever even see her again?

He jumped when her silky arms laced loosely around his shoulders and she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

"'Kisses are a better fate than wisdom,'" she whispered into his ear, quoting a line from the book he'd given her. He realized she was referring to the text in his hands, and thought it was probably one of the best greetings a man could get. Still, he didn't move, suddenly nervous.

He licked his lips.

Her arms tightened and she stroked his chest gently. "Why so serious, love?"

Jackson turned slowly, carefully, and Evelyn gasped, jolting a little before pulling back carefully, afraid to hurt him. "What happened?" she asked in a hushed voice, her fingers ghosting just millimeters away from his swollen, yellowed eye and taped jaw. "What _happened?_ God, even your throat has bruises!"

He tried to grin, but it still hurt, even though the bruises had faded to a pale green-and-jaundice. Then his grin fell away completely, because _nothing_ about this was funny.

"Sit down, Evelyn," he said firmly. His voice was still scratchy, gravelly, low. The doctors didn't think it would ever be quite back to normal—permanent damage to the vocal chords, they hypothesized. "I have to tell you something."

She sat immediately. "What happened?" she repeated again, her doe-eyes full of worry and concern.

He hesitated. "I probably won't be able to finish out this semester, Evelyn. Maybe I won't come back at all."

"Why not?" she demanded, sounding devastated. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, but she might not want to be there once she heard it all.

"I have to go to court. For a trial. It shouldn't be long, and the—the court-appointed attorney says I should be able to get out of any time because it was clearly self-defense, but…yeah. Who really knows?" he shrugged.

"Jackson," she said firmly, reaching out again and placing her hands on his. "Please. What happened?"

He forced a dry little chuckle. Flippancy was her best defense, right? Maybe it would work for him, too. "Chaos," he answered. "Complete chaos." And then—more seriously, and here was what it all rode on—"Evelyn, I killed my father."

She stared. _"He_ did this to you?—Jackson—"

Did she not hear what he'd said? _He'd killed his father._

"It's fine, Evelyn. I mean, it's not fine. It's patricide." He chuckled painfully at his own joke. "But…I'm okay, physically. And…I'll probably be okay legally, if that's what you're worried about. The lawyer doesn't think it's going to be too difficult, and he's obviously right or they probably wouldn't even let me come back here to school before my trial."

"Jackson," she whispered, like he was being unreasonable, and took his face tenderly in her hands. "God, Jackson, I thought I was being good by not pressing. I thought you'd tell me when you were ready. But dammit, Jackson, what has been happening to you?"

His stomach tightened. She still wanted him. Still cared for him. Maybe not later, when she had a chance to think about it—_patricide—_but for now, yes. He was still hers. Perhaps this was the kind of thing she'd meant when she'd talked about her unconditional trust in her loved ones—whatever it was, he'd _take it,_ with a grateful heart.

He wrapped her in his arms and for a moment, it was all he could do.

"Come away with me," she whispered. "Let's just hang out for the rest of the day. I'll take care of you. We can talk. I have a single room this year. I missed you." It was a series of completely unconnected statements, but they made perfect sense to Jackson.

They went to her room. Half-full boxes still littered her room, and it made his stomach tighten to know she had come to find him first-thing, without bothering to unpack. Only her bed was made, and some stuff spilled out on her dresser—even her clothes were still packed. He sat a little nervously on the edge of her bed—the chair was stacked with boxes—and tried to smile with the good side of his face. She sat next to him, her eyes intent, and slowly eased the hem of his shirt up. He was surprised—but obviously, he let her. Everything else aside, he was still a teenage boy, and she was warm and soft and _his._

The fabric came up. Carefully, she moved it over his head, carefully pulling at the neck to keep it from jarring his face.

She sucked in a breath. "Jesus Christ, Jackson," she hissed, her hands skating over the yellow bruises on the upper edge of his hips, on his ribs. "That _bastard—_I'm _glad—"_

His hand came up quickly to her lips. "You're not, Evie." It was the first time he'd called her by that name. "Not really. Don't say it, okay? You'll regret it when you realize how fucked up I am now—even more than I was before." He took a deep breath. Time for confession.

"Sometimes I look at you…" Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."

She still didn't move, simply stayed there—trusting him. Jackson fervently offered a brief prayer of thanks to whoever was listening that fate had seen fit to put her in his life, even if it was only briefly.

"You'd regret it if you said it," he whispered. "You'll regret that it happened, soon enough. And—I regret it. I _need_ to regret it."

It wasn't quite the truth. But he couldn't tell her that: that he didn't regret it. Not one fucking bit. But, paradoxically, he regretted _not_ regretting it. He wished he could regret it. He thought it might make him more human, more the kind of man Evie deserved.

Evelyn silently disagreed. She wouldn't regret saying it, she knew. _She was glad the bastard was dead. _She was like a tigress over the people she loved, and while most people would describe her as foolishly forgiving, she considered herself—with pride—vindictive and vicious when harm befell her loved ones.

However, Jackson was right about one thing—she was sad that it had been _him_ who'd dealt the killing blow. That would have to be traumatizing. It would have to mess you up, on some level. And no boy—especially Jackson—should have to defend himself against his own father that way.

Evie was sure, without having to think twice, that it had been a case of self-defense. She stared sadly, then laughed a little.

"My poor love," she whispered, and gently pushed him back on her bed. "So wise." She pressed her head delicately into the curve of his shoulder, kissing his throat lightly. "So serious. Long before your time." Her mouth moved gently over the fading bruises. He breathed slowly, trying not to shudder as she kissed his old wounds. She murmured over a thousand faded scars here and there, genuinely pained by the evidence of previous beatings and battles. A cigarette burn on his shoulder; a cut on his knee where the skin there had split during a beating. Stitches on his forearm, from the time his dad had broken the bone straight through the skin—compound fracture.

In moments, she had him nearly naked, and he didn't even know how it had happened. Her tenderness had him tied in knots, and for a second, he felt the space behind his eyes tighten. It was unfamiliar feeling, a tingling, and then his vision blurred and something wet slid down the side of his face into the hair at his temple.

Tentatively, looking shy, she pulled off her own shirt and curled in next to him. He skimmed his hand up her hip, from the waist band of her jeans to her back, afraid to touch. After all, she'd told him—and he could still see the faint silver lines of thin scars, a few shallow, quarter-sized valleys and knots where it looked like she'd been gouged. He imagined the boy with his switchblade, and her crying, the skin hanging off her in streamers.

She shivered back when he traced one thin scar from her collarbone to the swell of her breast, and he snatched his hand back like it had been a sin.

"It's okay," she encouraged, his voice unbearably gentle. He wanted to consume her.

Instead, he turned a little and kissed the top of her head while she drew patterns on his chest with her fingers. He was slim, fine-boned with long, taut muscles, like whipcords. He had lovely forearms in spite of the scarring, she realized, and she watched quietly as he slid his hand up and down her side. Sun streamed in from between the dorm-room blinds. He watched dust motes float in it, watched as it reflected off copper strands in her dark curls. She kissed his collarbone, and he licked his lips nervously, staring at the ceiling.

"My mother was killed in a drug raid in Metropolis," Jackson said.

Evelyn's fingers stilled on his chance in response, surprised at the sudden gift.

"We went through a couple times when we were really low—lost our apartment, didn't have any food. It was one of those times. We were dumpster-diving in an alley out behind an old warehouse and dumpy restaurant, and these jackasses—the dealers—burst through. One had a knife and he grabbed my mother—like a hostage, right?" He shook his head, still staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. "I had no fucking clue what was going on."

She bit her lip and ran her thumb in slow circles over his abdomen.

"The police were blasting through—just _blasting._ Fucking police—good for nothing. Careless. Anyway—shrapnel, exploding metal, pieces going flying—everything you can imagine. 'Cause there were still three or four guys who were in the open, right? No hostages, except for my mom. Fucking hell. My dad—he saved me, I guess." Jackson shrugged—it was no big favor in his eyes, but it still seemed a poor thing to repay with murder. "He shoved me behind the dumpster—tried to save Mom too, I think." _Mama, with her shiny hair._ "He was screaming for the police to stop, afraid they'd hit her. I think, in the confusion, they thought he was one of the dealers. Dirty money, you know?"

He said the last part fiercely, and she was surprised when he didn't continue—just stopped there, cold. Well, surprised, and a little not-so-surprised, too. It was painful, and her hands were shaking a little—she could only imagine what he was feeling.

"What happened?" she asked at last. "I mean, you know, if you mind telling."

His eyes were shining in the slanted sunlight. Tears, she thought—or something colder.

"_They tore her apart."_

She bit her lower lip, but she didn't flinch.

"It was an accident, I guess," he said dispassionately. "But they ripped her to pieces. Her guts were spilt out over the street. Her face was torn clean off—shrapnel, mostly; not gunfire. Lots of slices and gouges from ricocheted bullets or pieces of the dumpster. Part of her stomach was almost—pulpy—and part of it just poured out. Her neck had been cut too—a huge curve from side to side. It looked like a big, bloody smile. I guess I don't really know which it was that killed her."

There was a silence. It echoed.

"You saw all this?" Evie asked, her voice small in the barren, topaz light of the room. The space where her heart was seemed like a vacuum—tingling, empty. It wasn't quite pain; it was moreso that everything inside her had been shattered into little pieces and there was nothing to fill her up. There was only hollow space behind her collarbone and she thought she'd fold in on herself, like a black hole. The space behind her eyes tightened too, but without the release of tears.

Jackson shrugged. "Not really. I mean, I saw it after. My dad was sobbing over her. I'd never seen him cry before. He was holding her, rocking back and forth, running his hands through her hair and kissing her face. He had a mess all over him—parts of her, I realized later—like, tissue and blood and stuff. He'd been shot too, in the arm, but he didn't even notice it at the time. Well, I actually got a ricochet bullet too—"

She gasped.

"It was just in the leg. It still bothers me sometimes—I guess there was some deep-tissue damage or something—but I'm mostly okay. My dad though—he just kept crying and saying he killed her." He was silent for a minute. "He said it for years."

She was quiet, stroking his smooth chest softly.

"I decided nothing like that would ever happen to me or mine again," he said at last, his voice like ice. "I learned how to knife fight—use the same weapon that had been used on her. And guns, too. I'm a crackshot with firearms. But I'm just—more comfortable with the knives, I guess. Quicker. I can use them more easily in closer quarters, and people—attackers—they don't tend to notice them as quickly as they do a gun. They're easier to carry and more—more _personal._" He hazarded a glance at her, wondering if he had gone too far, but she just looked at him with patient eyes. "I've kept a switchblade on me since I was twelve."

She sucked in a breath. "How old were you when this happened?"

"Eight."

Her face crumpled and a flash of panic shuddered through him—he'd never seen her this close to tears. But she steeled her jaw and looked up at him. "Eight, when you saw your mother die."

He shrugged with one arm. "It's not what you're thinking. Like I said, I didn't see most of it. Don—my Dad, I mean—he shoved me behind a dumpster." His eyes turned back to the ceiling. "I saw her shadow on the ground, cast from one of the streetlights. It was perfectly clear. And I saw the shadow of her chest rise, and fall, and then it stuttered and hitched. And then it stopped moving." He paused. "And I knew."

Something hot fell on his chest and he actually jolted, thinking of the old cigarette burn, but Evelyn was quickly wiping away a damp spot. "I'm sorry," she muttered, looking flushed and furious with herself.

He laced his hand over hers. "Are you crying for me, Evie?"

She looked up slowly and placed a soft kiss on his scarred chin. "Keep talking to me, Jackson."

He caught the back of her head quickly with one hand—_snap, _he imagined—and brought her forehead roughly to his lips so he could return the favor. Her chaste, tender kisses were meaning more to him than he'd thought anything could ever mean.

"At first, Don was good. I mean he was really good. He loved my mom so much, Evie. He was head-over-heels for her, and he loved me too. I was a part of her, I think. So he buckled down, got an apartment, took good care of me at first. I did love him, once."

She kissed his shoulder, soft and full, putting all of her compassion and sorrow and love into that single contact of flesh-on-flesh.

"Then he started drinking. He worked hard—did nothing but work and drink—we never lost our home again. Which is shocking, because I have no idea how he functioned some days. And he got depressed. He'd say he killed her—Mom—and that he was responsible for butchering her, that he might as well have held the knife himself. He just kept—_blaming_ himself. I guess I probably did too, a little, at first. Before I understood. But I don't anymore—not for killing her."

Evie rolled over and touched a light finger to the scar on his lower lip, where his chin had split. "You blame him for this," she whispered, suddenly feeling very wise. "And this." Her fingers skimmed the tape on his jaw, gentle.

His tongue darted out, and he licked at his lip, imagining the blood there. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "I do." Another pause; then: "He tried to kill me while I was home. I mean, I think he was really _trying_ to kill me. Maybe he didn't realize he was doing it at the time—he gets like that sometimes. _Got_ like that sometimes. But it was definitely close to being over."

She hissed between her teeth, trying to quell the sudden plummeting of her stomach. She was nauseous at the thought of it, at the thought of not being with him when he needed her, even if there'd been nothing she could have done to save him. Still, in her head, she imagined a hulking man like the one who'd attacked her at the party and whose face she'd smashed in with a phone receiver. Maybe she could have distracted him—she imagined hitting him with a chair, a lamp, a textbook—knocked him out so Jackson wouldn't have to go through this now—she'd be resourceful—a hundred different ways, she imagined sparing him this pain.

Though she knew it was useless and silly, a worm of guilt slithered into her stomach. It rolled into the pit where she was already feeling sick with sadness and empathy and love and fear, and she fought back a wave of hot saliva that might have preceded throwing-up.

"I pulled out my knife and I just didn't think," Jackson continued, his voice sandy and bruised. "He was choking me and I was already bleeding everywhere. And I just slashed out the way I learned years ago, without bothering to think about it."

Which was mostly true. It had all been instinctive—but he knew what he was doing when he did it.

Evie lay there, her eyes sad and watchful.

"I got him across the throat," he said finally, quietly. "Now that I think about it—it was just like Mom's." He licked his lips again, remembering the taste of blood, then vomit, and how every convulsion brought more blinding, white-hot pain through his brain and just made him puke more till he passed out in his own puke. Crawling to the phone ten minutes later—when the pain woke him back up with white lights and more gagging—had been the most excruciating moments of his life. He'd found he couldn't talk without choking on pain and had simply moaned to the 911-operator until they'd traced the call and broke down the door.

Evelyn was trembling. All she could think was how empty and tight and fragile she felt, just hearing about his pain, imagining what it must have felt like. She placed her hand flat on his abdomen, gently, like he might break.

Jackson drew in a shuddering breath. "What happened to Mom—it was crazy. An accident. Chaos. Nothing could have stopped it, nothing he could have done differently." His face twisted suddenly. "But he had a choice. And look what he _did_ choose_—_what he let himself become. A hollow shell. A slob. No purpose. _Nothing_."

She tilted his face toward her and gently kissed the scar that ran his lower lip. Reluctantly, he turned his eyes from the ceiling onto her, and they glowed.

"You don't…hate me?" Jackson asked after a moment, licking his lips. He knew the answer, but he didn't understand it. For all he understood about the human condition, nothing prepared him for her.

"Of course not," she whispered back, her voice both gentle and fierce. "I could never be against you, Jackson. I'm for you. I'm _with_ you. Always. I'll be at your side in all of this, and after."

His shoulders quivered against her.

"As for the rest…" she trailed. "_You're_ not nothing. You'll always have purpose—you're too strong-willed, too passionate. You won't let that kind to hollowness happen to you. You will always be setting new things in motion." She eased herself over him, careful of his bruises, and the soft flesh of her breasts spilled just a little over the top of her bra, pressing against his skin. "You're the opposite of nothing, Jackson. You're everything."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

She was a goddess in bed.

It didn't occur to him till afterwards that she'd had more experience than he did—if you could call nonviolent assault "experience."Still, she knew what body parts went where, and what would make him feel good, and what made her feel good. It only galled him to know that it had been Alex to teach her—Alex, when she'd been eager to please but unwilling to go quite so far. Alex, who took advantage of her generosity, her passion.

She'd moved slow, and sometimes had seemed embarrassed and tentative, but while he had laid there in bruises she carefully navigated the waters of sex to provide him with maximum pleasure and minimal work. She'd been terrified of hurting him further, but he also thought maybe it had been for the best that he'd looked so mangled. There had been no room in her for fear or flashbacks—not when, for all intents and purposes, she thought he was more physically vulnerable than she was.

His weakness was an illusion, in a way, he supposed. He was used to pain and it didn't detract from his ability to move, to muscle, to be threatening. Emotionally, however, he was overwhelmingly grateful for her gentleness, the generous gift of her intimacy.

Instead she had soothed him with light touches, distracting him from pain. Her kisses had been slow and wet down his chest, butterfly-touches on his shoulders and chest as she rode him carefully. He prayed he would keep that visual till the day he died: her brown curls, spilling down her back and over her breasts—the way the light slanted over them as they bobbed above him. The feel of the curve of her back as he ran his hands over her spine, the way her breasts looked when she arched backward.

He woken up late in the evening, when everything was colored with dusky blues and purples. Evelyn was awake already, watching him.

"I think I'm supposed to be creeped out right now," he joked weakly. She threw back her head and laughed loudly.

"Please don't be. I'm sorry," she apologized, still chuckling.

He found himself smiling with her. "I'm not," he responded. "It's nice, to have someone watching and keeping the monsters away." He cringed, suddenly embarrassed. "I mean, it's just been a long time—since—"

She kissed him gently, square on the scar tissue of his lower lip, to hush him. "You can return the favor in the future," she whispered, and snuggled against his shoulder, still carefully avoiding the fading marks on his body. "I have lots of nightmares," she confided. "Since I imagine we'll be sleeping together a lot more now, I think I can afford to take first shift." She kissed his chest again, right over his heart.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered. "I'll keep watch."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Dent was alive, but injured. The Joker wasn't sure exactly what this meant for Gotham, so he had some of Maroni's inside men smuggle some of his favorite toys into Gotham General. The story he'd told the Latina policewoman—Rodriguez?—had given him an inspiration. For a moment, he really believed his mother had been in a bombed hospital years earlier. He thought it would be a nice bit of karmic justice to turn around and do the same thing here._

_Entirely honest with himself—or as honest as he could be—the Joker admitted he didn't know yet whether he'd blow up Dent and the rest of the patients or not. He'd wait to see if the good people of Gotham killed that nasty little maggot from Wayne Enterprises—_tattletale, ruining the fun with the Bat—_but that still didn't mean he was planning on killing everyone. He might do it just for fun. Or he might decide to let them evacuate first. He figured he might as well give them a fair chance of sixty minutes. He'd see how he felt after talking to Dent. And he _was_ a man of his word._

_The hospital was chaos. It was easy to get in. You just had to pretend like you knew what you were doing and where you were going, and no-one looked at you twice Not even if you had rings of black around your eyes. In Dent's room, he flipped through the charts. So the boyo was refusing pain meds, huh? This could be used to his advantage. You couldn't think clearly when you were in that much physical pain—much less the emotional assault. The Joker knew this. He had experience._

_An idiot police officer entered with words on his lips. The Joker turned without a thought and shot him while waiting for Dent's bed to raise._

_He took off his mask, sat down, and smiled awkwardly at Gotham's former district attorney. _

"_Hi."_

_The man in the hospital bed jolted upward at the sight of his make-up, struggling against his bonds, pulling and straining. Sweat immediately pricked through on the side of his face where there was still skin. The Joker thought briefly of his own scars and guessed that the pain Dent was feeling was probably even worse than his own. He wondered if, when he let this mad dog loose, Dent would wreak havoc on the city, or simply kill himself._

_It would be fun to find out._

"_You know I don't want there to be any hard feelings between us, Harvey. When you and, uh—"_

_He paused, genuinely trying to remember the name of the pretty brunette Ramirez had dropped off at Avenue X. She had reminded him of someone important, but he couldn't remember who—and he'd liked her sass. It was a shame, really—_

"_Rachel!" the former DA screamed. It sounded like his throat tore with the force of his words. _

"—_Rachel. Were, uh, being abducted? I was sitting in Gordon's cage!" He tried to make his voice as earnest as possible, wanting Dent to understand, to _really understand. _He'd really liked the girl—been amused by her, anyway. And he'd had no way of knowing, for sure, how it would work out. It all depended on how much the Bat loved her, and how much Dent loved her, and mow much Gordon loved her, too. It was fascinating to see how these things blossomed. Eagerly, seriously, he explained. "Now, I—I didn't rig those charges."_

"_Your men," Dent hissed. "Your plan."_

_The Joker lifted his lips in a rueful expression. "Do I really look like a guy with a plan?"_

_Dent blinked—with his good eye, at least._

"_You know what I am?" He grinned, almost charmingly abashed. "I'm a dog chasing cars._ I wouldn't know what to do with one if I caught it!!!—" _The prospect itself seemed to get him excited, giddy. Then he calmed down and lifted his hands airily. "I just…_do…things_…"_

_Dent had lost focus. He stared blurrily at the Joker through his good eye. His gaze wasn't the best through the other—temporary cornea damage, he seemed to remember one of the doctors saying. When he looked at the Joker again, the man didn't seem to realize he temporarily lost his audience._

"…_schemers trying to control their little worlds." The Joker eyed him seriously, and then spoke confidingly. "_I'm _not a schemer._ _I try to show the schemers how pathetic their attempts to control things really are." The Joker thought of the Batman: his other half, his former self, so distraught over a woman…by the laws of nature, you couldn't control things, especially in matters of love and war. It was a lesson they _all_ had to learn. This was his purpose—his greater objective, his _raison d'être.

"_So, when I say, come here_—" _he gripped Dent's hand, trying to be companionable even when it was obvious the man wanted nothing more to kill him "—when I say that you and your girlfriend was nothing personal, you know that I'm telling the truth."_

_Dent phased out again. His pain was unbearable, both physical and mental. He had found in the last few days that he couldn't always control where his attention was. Sometimes he was here, in the hospital, hating the world, hating everything, furious, missing Rachel, staring at his father's coin. In those moments, he didn't know himself, couldn't fully comprehend the depth of his own fury and lust for revenge. But other times, he was away—fully himself, the old blond Harvey Dent, Gotham's White Knight, and Rachel was laughing._

Harvey Two-Face,_ he thought, and came back to. He turned his face against the pillow to follow the Joker with his eyes. The madman was now on his left, and he nearly blacked out again when the raw muscles and nerves of his face scraped against the cotton pillowcase._

"_Nobody panics when things go according to plan_,_" the Joker said, almost bitterly. "Even if the plan is _horrifying."

_Pain. And Rachel. And pain. And Rachel. The cotton seemed to scrape at his sticky wounds. His eye was dry without a lid or lubrication. His teeth on that side of his mouth were loose, and the muscles in his face were aching, trembling, tight—times a million. The doctors had prodded and poked and pulled every pebble and bit of gravel and dirt from his burns, but they still felt gritty and hot._

_Something cool and heavy and metallic was slapped into his palm. He looked down and focused briefly on the gun and the Joker's surprisingly clean, neat hands. Some part of Dent had expected dried blood under the nails._

"_Introduce a little anarchy," the Joker urged, his voice a low growl. "Upset the established order, and everything becomes…chaos." He grinned and pressed the gun to his forehead, holding the DA's hand firmly, bracing it._ Would he do it? Would he do it? Did it matter? Did he _want_ it?

_The Lady watched, intrigued, sad. She was still dripping with water, the light reflecting gold on her drenched, dark hair. She smelled like honeysuckle again, and he thought briefly of _coming home_. The scent clung to her._

"_I'm an agent of chaos," the Joker said matter-of-factly. He eyed Harvey Dent, read in him his pain and agony, and made his final play. _

"_And you know the thing about chaos?...It's _fair_."_

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	5. Part V: Madness, As You Know

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Part V: Madness, As You Know**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. ******

**A/N: Blending some of the comics with the movie, lifting some paraphrased lines, The Joker says in one of the books that his psychosis is caused by one bad day, and ventures that Batman must have had his long ago, or he wouldn't be a "crazy" vigilante now. I thought it went well in the aftermath of his speech about madness being like gravity. :) **

**Easter Egg: One of the lines from the Joker is courtesy of the great Glorificus in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season Five. If you can find it, you get a cookie! **

**Anyway….Don't be mean! :) **

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_The ferries did _not_ blow up. Which was surprising, and disappointing, and completely _boring. _The water lay still as glass._

"_It's a funny world we live in," he said the Lady in front of him, on the other side of the pinned and helpless Batman. It didn't occur strange to him that though she was crouching there across from him, there was nothing but air for her to stand on. In fact, she looked disappointed too, but he got the funny feeling she was disappointed in _him._ The idea brought a distracted wince, but he didn't know why and he shoved it aside. Never mind—he had an extra detonator anyway._

"_Speaking of which," he said conversationally, directing his conversation back toward the Bat. "Do you know how I got these scars?"_

_His past all bled together in an array of blood and pain. Different flashes would come into his rapidly-firing brain at all times. He would piece them together as well as he could and swear it was all true. In this moment, he already knew what he would tell the Bat—a brunette girl, pretty, like the unfortunate late Miss—damn, what was her name? The one with sass. Rebecca? Renee?—anyway. Would the Bat get mad that he couldn't remember the girl's name, as Dent had done? It would be exciting to see. The girl—she was his pretty little wife—_

—Attending undergrad classes at a nearby college. Her ex boyfriend—Alex—who used to abuse her, comes back to town and breaks into our little one-room apartment and rapes her in our bed, so violently her legs break. Stabs her in the face a dozen times. Her cheeks—her eyes—her pretty throat. Even her tongue is cut out. He breaks her neck; snaps it in his bare hands. He carves our baby out of her stomach. He leaves them both in our bed—

_Just thinking about it made the Joker want to hurl. He could feel the agony of finding her just like it was yesterday—even though, for all intents and purposes, the story wasn't real. He _believed_ it was real. That was really all that mattered._

—I find her there. I go after him. I corner him in an alley. He has friends. They hold me down. _Why so serious?_ he asks me. He pries open my mouth and puts a playing card in to prop it open, then starts cutting—just an inch. It throbs. It_ burns._ Then, while they hold me, he starts talking about all the things he did to her, till I'm screaming and helpless, and it rips my face back even farther—

_All this flashed through the Joker's mind in less than a second—along with a hundred other things, like what the boats will look like when they blow, and how he can give the Batman a chance to get away, so they can continue this fun little exchange of pleasantries in the future. _

"_No!" the Batman growled, startling the Joker. For a moment, he forgot the question. "But I know how you got these!"_

_Pain blossomed briefly—almost unnoticed—but the Joker, startled, leapt back with a yelp like a dog who'd been kicked._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The courtroom case went off without a hitch and Jackson was back in classes before the semester was out. He spent nearly every waking moment—as well as a few sleeping ones—with Evelyn. He treasured her beyond anything or anyone else in his life.

They'd study together. She'd quiz him out of his book, on different chemical equations and all sorts of things. They worked together on psychology to keep him caught up while he was away, and since he didn't have anywhere to go in the following summer, he got a job on campus and they spent the entire three months together—sleeping in the sun, swimming at the beach a half-hour away, picnicking on the lawn. A hundred different things. If, two years earlier, someone had told Jackson he'd be sitting on the docks watching the moon at midnight with a beautiful brunette who fed him makeshift, bite-sized shortcake made from torn pieces of angel food, reddi whip, and single strawberries with the stems ripped off, he'd have sneered and spit in their face.

At this point, he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. If there was one thing life had taught him, it was this: _everything_ turns to ruin.

As it happened, the shoe fell sometime in early October, on a weekend when Evie had gone to a counseling conference with some of her friends from class.

Jackson didn't really have any other friends. At all, actually. But it didn't bother him. He found ways to amuse himself. It was still warm, though the trees had turned pale and golden, so sometimes he'd swim through the whole afternoon, continuing to build the lithe muscles in his arms and neck and chest and legs. He'd read. He'd listen to music. He didn't hate his new roommate this year—the first time it had happened, in spite of the fact that he was starting his third year—and sometimes he'd even allow the kid to rope him into watching a movie, or play a game of cards.

On that October afternoon, his new roommate—Michael, who was a bit boring but a man of good character, in Jackson's opinion—invited him to play poker with "the boys."

"You're so _good,_ dude. It's crazy."

"I'm not crazy," Jackson said sharply, and Michael shook his head. He'd picked up on Jackson's dislike of the term.

"Not you, Jack," he said. "I don't mean _you're_ crazy. I just mean how well you play—it's like, crazy-good. Unbelievable. You'll blow them out of the water."

"I don't gamble," he snapped at last. "Not for dirty money."

Mike chuckled. "Come on, man. It's not like any of the guys will have more than twenty-five bucks on them anyway—maybe forty, tops. Besides, whether you like money or not—wouldn't it be nice to put some away? Maybe get something nice for Evie, take her out to dinner?"

Jackson hesitated then, and in that moment, his fate was sealed.

Things are funny like that.

Because he was bored. Because Evie was gone. Because he'd been eyeing a ring for her. Because of chaotic fate. Pick any reason why—it didn't matter. Jackson went to the dirty lounge in McKinley Hall and played poker all night.

It probably would have been fine. Jackson was winning a lot and the guys couldn't understand why, but it amused and amazed them. They accused him good-naturedly of cheating sometimes throughout the night, but he just grinned with half his face and said, "I don't cheat." The truth was that his understanding of human behavior and his careful, watchful observations allowed him to pick out—for the most part—every bluff and play ahead of time. Conversely, no-one had a poker face quite like him.

He also had luck on his side. He wasn't a card-counter, and he wasn't a cheat, but chaos kept handing him the single wild card for almost every play: joker. Joker. Joker.

Joker.

"Forget the joker. _Jacko_'s wild tonight!" someone cracked at some point, and they laughed, leaning in to watch.

When he finally left later—fifty-six dollars and three movie-passes richer—he realized with a start that he'd enjoyed himself. Most of the guys had been relaxed and laughing, and he couldn't recall a condescending face among them. The kidding continued until, by the end of the evening, they were calling him a dozen variations of the terms Jack, Jacko, and Joker, teasing him and telling him his winning streak wouldn't last. They had slapped his back jovially when he'd packed up to leave, like he was an equal, or maybe even a poker hero.

That was the problem. He liked it. Thought he might actually be able to make some friends—or at least friendly acquaintances.

So he went back the next day with Mike again. And the weekend after that.

Looking back, it fascinated him how these things were set in motion. You could never predict what would happen. Chaos.

Evie was thrilled by it. She'd been bugging him for a while that hanging out only with her wasn't good for him, and she was excited at the prospect of him having more "friends," while he had been worried she'd feel neglected. Her response only made him appreciate her more, and he realized sharply one day that he loved her—_loved her—_and her unflagging faith and support. He started taking his Friday winnings—when she was out watching movies or hanging with her girlfriends—and setting them delicately aside for the ring he'd been eyeing. It was a pear-cut amethyst set with tiny pearls on either side—not the traditional diamond solitaire, but she'd always said she liked the nontraditional approach. And he had to admit he liked the color. He thought that the deep purple would look mysterious and alluring on the cool paleness of her slender finger.

He was waiting a little bit longer, but he was ready. He was definitely ready. The thought of her coming down an aisle toward_ him—_

He was careful not to play for too long, especially not with the same guys. It was probably why they were so good-natured about it and let him keep coming back. He didn't clean anybody out completely, and he wasn't a nasty winner. As a result, after a month and a half, he had four hundred seventy-eight dollars and pocket change in his second account on the night when Dave Malone showed up with some of his friends.

When Dave saw Jackson there at the poker table, his eyes turned flinty. He'd never _liked_ the Napier kid in the first place, and when he'd finally decided he was ready to make a move on pretty Evie Harris, the skinny jerk had gotten there first. Dave wasn't, by any means, in love with Evie—had in fact pretty much given up on her—but it was still a blow to his pride that this scarred-up, marked-up little brute with his skinny arms and legs had managed to snag her first.

And now he was here, playing in _his _space, with _his _friends.

"Hey, Jack…ass," Dave sneered. The guys behind him snickered and walked in, pulling out chairs and sitting down.

"Shut up, Dave," Michael said good-naturedly. "Watch him play—he's _awesome."_

Jackson laid down his hand. "7-6-5-Joker-3, Hearts," he said coolly, not even looking at Dave.

The kid across from him laughed, incredulous, and threw down his losing cards. "Damn, Joker," he said approvingly, grinning. "You've got some magic tricks up your sleeve or something."

Jackson allowed his lips to twitch, despite Dave's watchful presence. "Yeah," he acknowledged. "Watch all your money disappear."

"Fuck it," Dave snapped, practically yanking the other player off of his chair. "Play me, Jackass."

Jackson stared at the bulky boy across from him, completely expressionless. Slowly, he began shuffling, then dealt. "Seven-card stud. Your play," he said quietly.

Evelyn would have shaken her head sadly at him, her pretty brown curls swinging. Jackson knew that, and it was almost enough to make him stop—but not quite. Dave needed to be taught a lesson. You couldn't just go around treating people like crap and expecting them to lay down and take it.

He proceeded to wipe Dave out in their first game. And their next. And their next. At this point, usually, Jackson would deliberately betray something. The boys he played with knew he was pretty much a man of his word, and if he suggested they fold, they would. Occasionally, when he played someone particularly drunk or stubborn, he would just end the game and ask for a new challenger.

Not so this time.

He watched Dave's face get more and more red. Watched his stupid buddies get more and more quiet. When he'd finally cleaned he boy's pockets—three hundred fifty-two dollars, more than any college kid should take gambling, in his opinion—he held out his hands mockingly. "Are we done yet?"

"_You—fuckin'—"_ Dave nearly dove across the table. His friends catapulted after him, trying to hold him back, while Mike deposited himself firmly between Jackson and the furious boy.

"Dude, dude," said Mike. "Go home, chill out. It's not a big deal, all right? Jacko's _wild._"

Jackson didn't even flinch as Dave struggled across the table—he just met the kid's eyes quietly, a mocking curl to his lip. "Thanks for this, Dave. I have enough to get what I wanted, now. You almost doubled what I've made in the last six weeks."

"You think this is fuckin' _funny,_ Jackass?"Dave spat, breathing heavily. He looked like a bull, snorting and straining against his friends.

"Dave, you're being a fuckin' prick," someone from Jackson's left said—his original opponent, as a matter of fact. "Get the fuck out of here. Go cool down. The Joker's cool."

"He can stay," Jackson said coolly snickering. "I've made more tonight than in the last month and a half. I'm done here."

The kid who was hosting tonight—Rick, or something—looked conflicted, and Jackson realized for the first time that they _wanted_ him to stay, that they _liked_ him—much more than they liked Dave.

Not that Dave should be too much competition in a fistfight anyway, Jackson thought with a smirk. The kid was as dumb as doornails, a complete meathead, and with a nasty temper to boot. Jackson might have been built on mean bones himself, but he was careful about who he took it out on, and how.

"See you guys next week," he added, heading out. He thought it was important to let them know he wasn't let something like this get in the way of their weekend games, and he also enjoyed the little curl of satisfaction it gave him to rub Dave's face in the dirt even more.

As the lounge door swung shut, he heard Dave snap at his buddies, "I'm fine, I'm fine. Will you just fuckin' let go?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Evie was gone that Friday night, too. Since he had developed the habit of spending at least Fridays in the lounge playing cards, she had taken the weekend to visit with her cousin on the other side of the state.

Therefore, there was no reason for Jackson to head back to the dorms. He wandered down by the pond instead, then into the city. He just meandered for hours, thinking of Monday when he would deposit the rest of his money in the bank and maybe start saving up for something to go with the ring—a little start for their wedding, though Evie had mentioned once that she didn't want a big one. Maybe even get enough for a down-payment on a house. He'd been squirreling away little amounts for _that_ project even longer than the ring.

When he was crossing the lit-up bridge over the river, Dave's car screeched to a halt next to him, stopping diagonally across the lane. Jackson froze, then looked up, eyes cold.

Dave stumbled out of the car. It was well past one in the morning now, and the normally crowded bridge was empty but for the two of them.

Dave stunk like alcohol. Jackson thought briefly of Donald, his stale sweat, his hands like slabs of beef.

"You fucking freak," Dave spat. Jackson simply watched him as he drew nearer, tripping on the curb of the sidewalk. "You…skinny little…_loser…"_

"Looks like I _won_ tonight," Jackson said mildly.

Dave sputtered, infuriated, then screamed and rushed at Jackson. The thinner boy stepped aside easily and Dave slammed against the safety rail, the breath knocked out of his gut. He gagged and wobbled, and Jackson was behind him in a moment, grasping the bigger man by the neck. Part of the purpose was to intimidate, but Jackson also wanted to make sure the drunken idiot didn't fall to his death in the river below. It might have been warm weather for October, but the river was cold, and deep, and fast—and Dave was a lush.

He leaned over as the boy struggled against him. He knew Dave was surprised by his strength, and it made him grin.

"You wanted to know how I got these scars," he hissed in Dave's ear.

"You're crazy!" Dave spat, struggling feebly. Jackson's wiry build was impossible to fight against.

"I'm _not,_" Jackson snapped, no longer playing. "I'm. Not." Then—"Did I ever tell you remind me of my father?"

Dave lurched suddenly. "I heard you killed your father with a knife!"

The sideways movement caught Jackson by surprise and he glimpsed a silver flash as Dave thrust wildly with a blade. The kid had no experience, no coordination whatsoever—but he did have the element of surprise. Jackson side-stepped, dodging, but the knife—probably intended for his neck or chest, a wild slash—punched through his cheek and into his gum, slamming into his teeth and grinding on the roots. Jackson fell backward, shocked, but not before the knife scraped forward, loosening his molars and almost cutting clean through to his lip.

Blood poured everywhere. He wanted to scream, but something held him back—the damage would only get worse if he yelled, he was sure.

Dave looked as shocked as Jackson felt, staring at the boy in front of him. "Shit—"

Then he looked at the knife in his hand. It was wickedly curved—and bloody now, too. A switchblade—not very useful, this one, but fancy. A gift from an adoring father or uncle, most likely.

The blood gleamed black, and a sudden moment of clarity passed Dave's face.

He rushed at Jackson again.

The world swam crazily in front of Jackson, but he stepped aside again—more prepared this time.

"I'll fucking kill you," Dave spat. "I'll tear you apart. Then I'll break into that little girl's room and fuck her so hard her legs will break, and god only knows she doesn't match _your_ ugly face, so I'll rip hers apart with the same knife I'm using on you right now. _Right fucking now! _Gonna cut out her fucking _tongue—"_

The threat was enough. Jackson was already there. In a split second, he looped around behind the bulkier boy and wrapped his arms around him, pinning Dave's arms to his sides and rushing toward the railing. The thick metal bar slammed into Dave's ribs. They cracked loudly, and Jackson stood behind him, still holding him and putting all his weight on the kid. Jackson imagined the broken rib-bones burrowing deep into Dave's lungs. It would have looked like a lover's embrace from the streets, had anyone been there to see them.

Dave gurgled painfully, sagging over the rail, his eyes wide. His chest rattled and he sprayed blood with every breath. A sickly smell reach Jackson's nostrils—piss. He sneered despite the rip in his cheek, feeling both disgusted and satisfied.

"Did I ever tell you that you reminded me of my father?" Jackson repeated, his voice a whisper in the bigger man's ear, blood gushing from his cheek. "I _hated_ my father."

He slipped the knife from Dave's hand and stepped back, arms wide as a showman's, and David Malone toppled over the railing.

Jackson lifted the knife to the streetlight, staring at the thin layer of crimson on the curved blade—his own blood—before wiping it on his shirt and slipping it into his waistband, next to the old one.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He broke into the Campus Medical Center that night and stole some surgical thread. In the mirror of the Med Shed bathroom, he sewed himself up as well as he could. It wasn't pretty, but it was better than going to the hospital. Too many questions. He tossed his shirt and pants in a dumpster one town over, and went to sleep.

Mike was still gone in the morning, for which Jackson was grateful. Jackson left a note that he was going away for a week to visit his nonexistent aunt, and left the same note for Evie. He hated lying to her, but it was necessary.

He drove two states away, enjoying the solitude and sleeping in his car.

Evie and Mike were both waiting for him with the news when he got back, looking sad. When they saw his face, their concern was magnified—and he guessed with good reason. The cut rode a crescent across his jaw, from the apple of his cheek and stopping about a half-inch shy of his mouth. The stitches were ugly, and the whole think looked like a macabre half-smile.

He told them he'd tripped over his aunt's yapping dog on the stairs and had split his cheek on the banister. He laughed and said it was just lucky he hadn't broken the other side of his jaw. He was learning the concept of flippancy well.

Evie still looked horrified, and he took her into his arms and said it was okay, and that he'd seen a doctor, and everything was going to be fine.

Then they told him the news. He'd done his best to act surprised—and frankly, it wasn't hard after hearing the warped version that had reached the public. He'd been sure that he'd be carted away almost upon his arrival—as a suspect or witness, at least. Apparently the police had discovered Dave's car around 4 am, when someone else crossed the bridge finally and noticed it there. The story was that he'd calmed down shortly after Jackson had left, played a few rounds of poker, and headed back to his suite to drink with his buddies. He decided in the middle of the night to drive home for a weekend visit, and in spite of his drunkenness, no-one could convince him otherwise.

The police ruled his death as accidental.

Dave was found on Thursday, washed up three cities away. He'd died by drowning, but that was probably—according to the official reports—aggravated by the fact that he'd banged his ribs up on something in the fall, and they'd punctured his lungs.

Which Jackson thought was a fucking joke. As happy as he was that he was off the hook, they had to have noticed the blood there—_his_ blood. And what about the fight they'd had earlier that night? Weren't the police supposed to ask about stuff like that?

Apparently they hadn't, and no-one had brought it up. Even when he came back to campus with the carefully cleaned stitches still in his cheek, no-one mentioned he incongruity of his mysterious departure in conjunction with Dave's death.

Jackson was surprisingly bitter about it, even if he didn't show it. Surprised himself, actually. He expected to be happy to get off scot-free, but he was just bitterly disappointed. He knew he shouldn't have been. When had the police or the government or the lawyers ever gotten anything fucking right? His mother, her hot blood spilt over the pavement, the silhouette of her shadow shuddering for breath in the gutter. Mowed down by the police. He thought of his broken father, beating him like a rag doll, breaking his arm that one time. Jackson wasn't stupid—he knew his teachers in grade school and middle school, with their soulful eyes, had reported their fears to social services. A few times, social workers had even showed up at the door. What good had they done him? What sense of order had they ever instilled?

And now this. Not even a single interrogation. He was giddy, and contemptuous, and angry, all at once.

Fucking pathetic.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The throbbing became normal, expected. One night he cut the stitches out himself, figuring it was time, and the bleeding started all over again—and some puss. Jackson guessed he hadn't quite sterilized things as much as he'd thought. He tried to clean the wound again and empty out the infection. Luckily, it seemed minor.

That side of his face burned and pulled and stretched every time he tried to speak, and scars were swollen and red. Sometimes he found himself staring into the mirror for hours, losing himself in the labyrinth of it. It had healed uglier than he'd expected: puckered, withered, rippled. Still red. Inflamed, a bit. He supposed that was what you got when you attempted to stitch up your own stabbed face.

Sometimes he would lay in bed and try to feel everything: the dull ache in his hip, which had been cracked the night his father went crazy. The almost arthritic tightness in his hand, where the bones had been broken years before. He'd had a broken collarbone once that twinged whenever he raised his arms, and his chin and lower lips ached and pulled regularly. His once-broken jaw hurt all the time, especially when it rained or snowed. The compound fracture that had occurred in his arm all those years ago had simultaneously resulted in some deep-tissue scarring, which stabbed him with pain when he forgot to massage it regularly. The bullet-wound in his leg, from when he was a kid and his mother was slaughtered. It was hard to discern which ache came from where anymore.

He didn't realize it was a problem until a few months later—in fact, he kind of thought of it as a strength. With so much chronic pain, new hurts didn't affect him much. He was almost immune to it. He supposed it was probably how he'd reacted so calmly to Dave slashing him across the face.

Then, one day, in one of the dorm kitchens, he found Evie filling a sink of dishes with hot water. He'd been happy to help while she finished cooking their dinner, and had started washing the dishes with the water still running, laughing and grinning as she teased him and told him stories of her day. When she looked over her shoulder from the stove, her eyes narrowed and then widened. For a moment, she looked horrified; frozen.

"Jackson!" she choked out, and shoved him away.

For a second he was furious, but she looked so stricken, and he followed her gaze. The sink was billowing with steam. His eyes moved to his own hands, which were bright red. Pale blisters had started to rise on his knuckles and palms. He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the pain now as it licked up his joints like fire. Funny how he hadn't noticed it before, he mused.

Evie was scared.

He went to the doctor after the burns started to heal—for her. The doctor was appalled at the state of the scars on his cheek—apparently they'd been more infected than he thought, but the pain and heat had gone unnoticed by him. The doctor said he'd never seen a body so abused, but other than some antibiotics for the infection, there was really nothing he could do unless Jackson wanted painkillers.

Jackson declined.

The boys he gambled with were hard to read. Sometimes it was like old times with them, but on other occasions he could see them eyeing his scars nervously, staring at his hands which now sported weeping sores, remembering the story of how he'd killed his father—even if it was in self-defense. He wondered if any of them had put two and two together yet and recognized that he might have been responsible for Dave's death.

No, probably not.

The only person who never failed to look at him with laughter and friendship was Evie. Evie, who would kiss the pitted texture of his swollen cheek, even though it looked like raw, ground hamburger. She pressed her lips against him reverently, and every kiss was like a prayer. She never seemed to see how ugly he was—inside or out. She seemed to think he was beautiful.

The night before graduation, the campus sprinkler turned on while they were watching the stars. Laughing, Evie had pulled him in, swirling and dancing in the spray. Glints of gold skittered over her damp curls, cast by the yellow campus lights. She was wearing a satin sundress, which glowed in the shadows and then clung damply to her curves.

Later, he would sometimes see her like this in his mind: dancing in satin, her wet hair flying.

"Dance with me!" she cried, giddy with pre-grad adrenaline. And then: "We're off to the rest of our lives, Jackson! Aren't you excited?"

He had joined her then, spinning around to scoop her up in his thin, tightly-coiled arms. She had laughed, looking down at him, the water soaking his face, gathering in the valleys of his scarred cheek. She had stilled then, arching back to look at him clearly, her eyes softer than anything he'd ever seen. Her fingers traced the rivers over his face and lingered in the indents of the scars. The sprinklers rained on, soaking the satin dress clean through.

"You are the most beautiful thing I know," she whispered at last. "I love everything about you, Jackson Napier."

"Marry me," he responded, not thinking.

Even her fingers stilled then, and she quivered.

He felt like an idiot and licked his lips, expecting the taste of blood. "I mean it, Evelyn. I have the ring in my coat." Jackson frowned, hazarded onward—"This wasn't how I wanted to do this. I thought—flowers. A fancy dinner. Maybe—"

"Do I seem like the fancy-dinner type to you?" she whispered, breaking in.

He licked his lips again. "Evie, I wanted to do this right. I have a ring—and money set aside—there was the whole down-on-one-knee thing—"

She kissed him softly. "I'm glad it was this way." Her forehead rested against his. Her eyelashes were starred by the falling water, and her wet hair made a gleaming curtain around them. "I surely don't want you down on your knee, not when you're asking me to share your life." She wriggled till he set her down, sliding her body against his chest. Evelyn looked up at him with doe-eyes, shining. "Shouldn't this be an equal partnership?" And she kissed him again, not so softly this time. "I'm with you," she breathed against his mouth.

They were precious words to him.

While his heart burned and his mouth moved over hers, Jackson thought of his father. He thought of his mother, with her belly torn out. He thought of Dave Malone, whom he'd killed and thrown into the river. He thought of his broken hand, the way he'd imagine violence in his head like it was actually happening, the way Evelyn's eyes curved like black crescent moons when she smiled.

"I don't want anything dark to touch you," he said at last, the same phrase he'd thought when they were both still freshmen and new and he thought there was the smallest possibility she was faking him out.

"Dance with me, Jackson," she whispered, her voice so full of passion and understanding and love and _yes_ and _I will _and_ I do _that he could barely breathe. And then: "We're off to the rest of our lives together. Aren't you excited?"

His heart tremored in his chest, a shy bird. He was excited, and joyful, and grateful.

He should have known better.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"_You're after the wrong guy," the Joker mocked as he swung upside down, about a hundred stories from the cement._

_The lady SWAT officer said nothing, but she looked scared. The Joker wondered briefly what it would be like to be so—_trained—_to handle everything just right, and then to be faced with something utterly unexpected. Something you couldn't train for._

_Something like _him.

"_I'm serious," the Joker said. "There's a creep wandering around the city in a bat-costume with all sorts of expensive doodads, and you're arresting the one sane guy in the city."_

"_Sane?" the officer scoffed, breaking her code of silence. Some of the others started pulling him in by the ropes, but she—along with six others—had their guns trained on him._

"_Honey, I'm the original one-eyed chiclet in the kingdom of the blind."_

_The officer snorted. She was pretty—brown-haired, doe-eyed. She smelled like honeysuckle and summer. _

_She reminded him of someone._

"_Sass. I like that." He licked his lips. "See, sugar, the Batman is just like me. We're practically the same person! If you're arresting me—" one of the other SWAT officers started cutting the ropes while four others rained their guns on him "—you should be taking him down too."_

"_He's nothing like you," another man snapped._

"_Oh, but he is," the Joker hissed, grinning. "All you need to push you over the edge is one…bad…day. How much do you want to bet that the Bat has had his? That it's what made him into the caped avenger you so know and love? "_

"_You're crazy," the female officer snapped, her eyes narrow. _

_His smile dropped away. There was no hint of amusement now. "_Not_. No, I'm _not_. I'm not." Silence as the SWAT team worked on securing him, each of them cringing subtly away from him. "Look, when you want to get your heads out of your asses and think about things realistically," he said at last, obviously fed up with their ignorance, "you call me. We can talk psych. You better believe that _something_ caused him to go on this—_rampage_ of his. You don't dress up in a batsuit and go leaping across rooftops unless somewhere along the line, you've had a really. Bad. Day."_

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	6. Part VI: Legends of the Fall

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Part VI: Legends of the Fall**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. ******

**A/N: A gift to my faithful reviewers: the longest chapter so far (only one more to go!). Uh, I hope you guys know…with this being a Joker origin story, this won't be ending in sunshine and puppies. More like, well, tragedy and bloodshed and burning.**

**Anyway….the title of this chapter is taken from a movie. I have no idea what the movie is about. I only know, when I first read the name, I thought of the myths of the fall from grace, and Lucifer. It seemed fitting. Also, remember that line during the chase-scene with the "slaughter" semi? When the Joker says, "I love this job"? Briefly referenced here. Find it and you get a cookie! **

**And finally….I have no real background regarding top-secret confidential government agencies. Bear that in mind, and remember: it's just for fun—don't be mean! :) **

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_The courtroom air was thick and heavy with tension. The Joker sat next to his court-appointed attorney, who kept glancing at him nervously. The Joker did not usually have sympathy—or indeed, any human range of emotion at all—for lawyers, but he almost felt bad for this guy…he must have pulled the short straw. In a country where everyone is offered legal council, the system still failed—for this man._

_The thought made the Joker's lips twitch._

_Every person in the room was anxious, eyeing the madman, waiting for him to snap—start screaming—blow up the entire courthouse with the power of his mind alone. The twitch in his lips made most of them jump, no matter how far away they were._

_As for the Joker himself, he simply looked around with wide eyes. Even with his make-up half-worn away and sunken into the creases of his face, smeared together, he still managed to look innocent. Ghastly, but innocent: a witless child, perhaps. One who would smile naively one minute and bite your finger off the next, as Officer McDaniel had unfortunately found out. _

_The expression was not, of course, a genuine in one—nor was it part of the Joker's greater "plan." It was just something he liked to do when he thought it would make people uncomfortable. Push their buttons._

_As for his so-called "plan"—the police and attorneys in this town were certain he had one. Pathetic. They kept asking him about a greater scheme or his intentions—well, he had none. Not really. He just liked to blow things up—buildings, people, social expectations. _Why?_ they kept asking. As though there was a reason._

_As though there could ever be._

_In his periphery, the Lady danced. He paused with his innocent act, turned to watch her. He had long ago given up on listening to—_Guitierez? Ramone?_—to the lady-cop's testimony. _

_His own lawyer got up, questioned her briefly, and sat back down, sweating bullets._

_The woman—_Ramirez!_—was dismissed. She walked down the aisle._

_The Joker was on her in a minute, in spite of his shackled ankles. Somehow, he had launched himself over his lawyer, a security guard, and the railings all at once. He had his wrists flexed, his hands behind her head, palms pushing her skull forward. Ramirez choked. It took a second for the scrambling officer to realize what he was doing—choking her on the short chain of his handcuffs._

_Ramirez smelled like honeysuckle, like summer, and for a second he thought she was the Lady and almost released her. Then, no—he pushed her forward again, laughing giddily at the false start he'd given the police, who now had their guns trained on him. _

"_Faked you out!" he sing-songed, and snickered loudly. "You thought I was just going to let her go?" The chuckles turned into full-blown, mocking laughter. He had already forgotten his own near-fatal mistake. _

"_You," he added conversationally, directing the words to Commissioner Gordon, who was half-standing, looking panicked. "You have to be the most stupid man I've ever met. Sitting in here, listening to me—do you know there's a man running around town dressed like _a bat?_ What the hell are you doing in here?" _

_He grinned and switched gears, eager to keep them all on their toes._

"_Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?" he purred in Ramirez's ear, loud enough for his audience to hear. He was backing up carefully, graceful and deft despite the shackles. Ramirez stumbled backward, gasping and choking. Her vision was awash in red spots. "I had a pretty little wife. Brunette, like you. We weren't very wealthy, you know. We struggled from day to day to keep things together. One Christmas, I wanted to take her out. We never went anywhere, and she deserved to be treated like a queen. So on Christmas Eve, we went to this cheap little restaurant in downtown Metropolis. It was the only thing we could afford, right? It was the best I could do for her. She was laughing and smiling. She was so happy. Her eyes were purple stars." He got caught up in the story. He thought there may have even been someone like that, once, somewhere in his past. For real._

_He yanked on his wrists, and Ramirez gagged. The guns in front of them wavered, worriedly. He grinned. They were _captivated_ by his story. They were _hooked.

"_We left the restaurant," he hissed. His own throat constricted. He could remember the agony. "The next building over, the MPD were busting some drug dealers. Things got messy. Some of the dealers managed to escape. As we were walking down the alley next to the restaurant, they burst out. One had a knife. He grabbed my wife and tried to use her as a hostage—like this." He rattled his cuffs and Ramirez's head snapped back as she coughed and struggled. The Joker rolled his eyes, wondering when she would pass out. "You're ruining the mood of my story," he complained, clearly irritated. "Anyway, they grab her as a hostage. One has a knife—he has it at her throat. I tried to stop them, but the police burst out the same door and started firing. Shrapnel and ricochet bullets everywhere. They must have thought I was one of them—they got me in the arm while I was trying to protect her. A piece of a nearby dumpster got blown off and sliced my face, but I didn't even notice. By the time I got to her and the cops stopped firing, I realized they'd shot her to pieces. Tore her face clean off; her tummy was blown apart. Her guts were _everywhere. _I held her hand and watched the pulse in her wrist till it stopped."_

_The courtroom was silent except for heavy breathing. The Joker tilted his head, suddenly not sure if the story was quite right. Maybe the pulse had been in her throat. Maybe it had been her chest he'd seen, or the shadow of it. Had her hair been brown curls, or burnished gold? _

"_You see, folks…it's always about a lady. That's exactly why it had to be Rachel Dawes."_

_His brain cleared, already on to the next thought. "But see, that's what you cops and schemers are like. You think you can control things—but really, you just blow them all to hell." He grinned nastily. "So what are you going to do, hm? 'Bout me?"Silence as he edged back toward the door. The shackles made for slow going. Ramirez wheezed and he shook her, annoyed. "Knock it off," he growled, and then his features lightened and he eyed the cops facing him with a gleam of speculation in his gaze. _

"_You could go on and shoot her," he suggested, still backing away. "Go on, do it," he urged. "You shoot her, you get to me. After all—" he grinned, licking his lips. The gesture was almost obscene. "—she is a traitor. Practically a cop-killer herself. Look what she got herself into—look what she _did!_ Working for Maroni—" He snickered. "Responsible for the death of the poor, late assistant DA—come on. Do it. Do it. _Do it, I want you to _do_ it."

_Ramirez gagged as they reached the door. The Joker watched the barrels of the guns. Some of them quivered. They were trying to get in a clear shot, maybe. Or trying to decide whether or not to shoot anyway, even if it meant killing her—the traitor. _

_He kicked the door open as well as he could with bound feet—surprisingly well. They couldn't understand how he moved his body the way he did. It was enough for him to wedge a shoulder in._

"_I'm leaving," he announced after a silent second. "Not Gotham, of course. Just you, here." _

_Nothing._

"_You can end this now," he warned them, shaking Ramirez like a rag doll. She was graying out, no longer aware of what was going on around her. "Just shoot her, and shoot me, and end this."_

_Nothing._

_He sighed. "You people are so unbelievably, unpredictably boring."_

_The Joker flung Ramirez aside and disappeared through the door exactly as the triggers were pulled. There were shouts from outside the courtroom—probably guards—and then those were silent too._

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When they got married, only Evie's family came. She'd asked about Jackson's mysterious aunt with the yapping little dog, but he'd made up an excuse for the nonexistent woman. Her parents and little brother must have been expecting his scars, because not one of them stared or looked startled at the sight. Instead, they embraced him, welcomed him, asked a little about him, looked decidedly uncomfortable, and left when the celebration was over. They lived six states away, after all. Jackson appreciated the attempt.

He was surprised when Evie let him pick out a house for them himself. He knew she wanted to make their big decisions together, but he also knew she understood that this was meaningful for him. To choose their place of residence. To look hard and select it like a gift: a home.

He found a stumbling two-story house, narrow, the shutters leaning sideways on the windows. The pipes rumbled and leaked, and the walls let the cold air seep in. But he knew how to fix those things, or most of them. He'd learn the rest. And the honeysuckle swept over the windows and sidewalk and there were roses on the roof, and maybe saplings growing in the gutter. He fixed as much as he could while they lived in an apartment two miles away, and he cleaned all the left-behind furniture meticulously after he got out of work. He filled the house with candles so they wouldn't have to use electricity all the time, and when he couldn't open the fireplace flue, he filled the hearth with candles too. He put piles of carefully-folded fleece blankets—collected over four years of living in chilly dorms—on the floor by the couch and at the foot of the box-spring, where the mattress on the floor of their apartment would be moved.

When their temporary lease was up, he brought her in with her eyes blindfolded, and the sun coming in slantwise through the windows. The early, unseasonably warm autumn outside smelled sweet and golden, like corn. She pulled him down on the blankets by the couch, slipping his shirt easily up the narrow trunk of his body, laughing against his mouth so that he swallowed her joy and breathed it in like the sun. He caught the pale musical notes of her sighs and murmurs against his shoulders and throat, and he held them inside his chest. Each one was a flat gold coin or a seashell—a piece of fruit, a piece of treasure.

"I was offered a job," he said at last, late in the evening. The bathroom door was open, and lavender light spilled in from the dusk outside the house. In the lush purple shadows of the windowless bathroom, the air was heavy with candlelight and topaz steam. Barely conscious of how the elements might affect his own pain-riddled body, he had been carefully testing the water with his fingertips before filling the tub, afraid of burning Evie's pale flesh. Finally, they'd both climbed in, laughing and bracing each other till they had sunk deep into the cracked porcelain tub. Her back was to his chest, and his long legs were bent on either side of her soft, flushed body.

"Another?" she asked, tilting her head against his chest to look up at him. He'd had multiple offers, even before graduation, but none of them were jobs he was interested in. For now, he was happy working at the autoshop. He did his job well, even if it didn't involve the explosions and chemical reactions he'd been so skilled at creating in undergrad. Someday, when he found the right job, he'd know it. He'd love it.

"Will you take it?"Evie asked.

"Do you want me to?" he challenged. His fingertips glided slowly up and down her wide hips and narrow waist, just tracing the curve there. Her breasts floated in the water, gleaming, and he eyed them almost hungrily. "Who'd think so many people would be offering jobs to a kid with a bachelor's?"

Evelyn laughed, catching his gaze on her breasts. "Well, you are kind of a genius," she conceded flirtatiously, wriggling against him. "So what is this mysterious job offer?"

He licked his lip, the first time he'd done so since he'd proposed. "It's a government job," he said carefully. "Actually pretty—confidential. I can't tell you much, and to be honest, they didn't tell me much. All I know is it relates to explosives and weaponry and acronyms."

She laughed at the last bit, recognizing one of his dry jokes. Humor was still something he struggled with, but he was more relaxed with it now, more ready to say what was on his mind. Then she moved down and rolled over, a tight fit in the cracked porcelain tub. Her smooth breasts bobbed against his thighs, and he could see her rear just breaking the water behind her—a perfect heart. She was sleek and smooth, her dark hair a tangle of wet curls over one smooth shoulder, her arms laced loosely over his hips.

"What do you think of that?" she asked, her dark eyes caught on his.

He hesitated, careful. "I have no use for money," he said at last. "Which—there'd be a lot. But you know how I feel about that."

She nodded, silent.

"And I have no use for the government, or for the police." He ground his teeth. "They did nothing good for me, ever." He thought of his mother, her entrails on the ground. He thought of Donald. "They're incompetent," he spit, more acidic than he'd meant to. "They're pathetic, thinking they can control—"

He broke off. Jackson had been careful in his time with Evie. He told her about his life, but he tried not to let his bottomless anger seep in. He had failed this time, he knew.

The look on her face was even and content, however, and he realized quite suddenly that she must have known, long before, how damaged he really was. How bitter and contemptuous.

And still, she chose him.

His kissed her forehead.

"But it is a lot of money," he conceded. "Enough that we could pay off our student loans—"

She started to protest—they were her loans, not his; he had been on a full-ride scholarship—but he snickered and continued.

"Equal partnership, remember?" he mocked her, and pinch her rear. She squealed and sloshed water over the edge of the tub. "They're _our_ loans. Anyway, we could pay them off. Quickly. And you could go to grad school full-time, instead of part-time, and not work while you do it—"

"Jackson," she said firmly, pulling herself up slowly. Her breasts slid against his abdomen and he bit back a groan. Her lips twitched at his reaction but she waited till she had his full attention before continuing. "I want you to do what _you_ want to do. As long as we have a roof over our heads, we'll be fine. I don't want you to take a job you're so conflicted about—"

"I'm taking it," he interrupted.

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't want you taking a job you're miserable in, Jackson—going through the motions. 'Unbeing dead isn't being alive,'" she added, quoting the book of poetry he'd given her years ago. She still had it, dog-eared and tattered from excessive love.

He tried not to moan when she shifted. She had no idea what she did to him. Her assurance that everything would be fine, her desire for him to be happy…it had only convinced him more thoroughly that this was something he needed to do. You _couldn't _control life—had to be as prepared as possible—and if anyone deserved security and comfort, it was Evie.

"You're about to make me a little more alive than you counted on, Evie. I feel like the most alive man in the _world_ right now."

She grinned and wriggled, then grew serious. "Jackson—"

He cut off her protest with a kiss, his hands sliding luxuriously up the satiny backs of her thighs, parting her legs and pulling her up so that she was straddling him in the tub. "Shhh," he urged. "Evie, we'll fix up this pretty little house, get a working TV, one that doesn't go dark randomly. Get a little car—the job is just temporary, sugar. We can plant a garden in the summer. A picket fence. Get a fucking puppy if you want one—"

She laughed loudly, her head falling back to expose the white line of her throat. "Ah, such pillow talk—!" she crooned, teasing.

Her laughter melted into a heated sigh when he pressed butterfly kisses to the side of her neck and slipped between her legs.

Then, seriously, she added, "Jackson, I love you. And whatever you decide—I'm with you, kid."

When she said things like that it made his chest hurt and his stomach tighten. He pressed fevered kisses across her collarbone and over his heart.

It did not occur to him that he had not once, in the last nine months, thought even briefly of hurting her.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Jackson took the job. He was traveling to and from the state capitol every day, five days a week—an hour-and-a-half commute by bus and metro the first week. When his employers realized his situation, they provided him with a vehicle, which cut drive time down to twenty-five minutes.

Within a month, they were making a down payment on another small vehicle—_go easy,_ Evie had said laughingly, insisting on a small thing with good gas mileage. He hated to admit it, but having the money and means was going to his head—just a little. He had scrimped and saved just to survive when he was even a child. Having the income now to support a family made him think of his father, and how his father had failed. Jackson would never have his wife living on the streets, without a hot bath or solid food or a fireplace full of candles.

Where he used to imagine, briefly, snapping Evelyn Harris' neck, slicing her throat, smashing her head in with a cinderblock—now his flashes instead focused on futility and loss. Deep inside, he knew money was dirty and control was an illusion. Nonetheless, he strove.

Evelyn knew. And Jackson knew she knew, and that it made her sad. His anxiety ate at her, and at the same time, she wouldn't ask questions—she knew he could only tell her so much.

Instead, she would drift her fingers down his face in the darkness, ghosting them over his furrowed brow, the line of his nose, the scar on his lip and chin. "So serious," she would murmur, and then she would kiss him, and soon they would be moaning and laughing in the dark. Evie was sensual and exploratory, and sometimes their nights were cloaked in shouts and cries. More often than not, however, their lovemaking was playful as well as passionate, and full of more joy than Jackson thought it safe to admit aloud for fear of fate.

He wasn't sure about God, or souls, or anything beyond the purely intellectual bits of philosophy he'd learned in college, but he caught himself praying that things would work out well, just for Evie's sake. He was afraid—afraid of how his own tension was rubbing off on Evie (who was not, by any means, fragile—who had proven that—but damn it all to hell if he didn't want to protect her from everything anyway). She was stoic in her refusal to ask him questions, not wanting to put him on the spot—and he was afraid of how that might be hurting her too. He hated the forced distance between them—

_You killed a man and blamed it on the dog of a nonexistent aunt,_ some malicious part of him reminded gleefully. His stomach plummeted, but he resolutely pushed it out of his mind.

He was afraid, still, of becoming like his father, and perhaps part of that was what led to his obsessive protection of Evelyn. If something happened to her, he honestly did not know how he could possibly cope. Imagining life without Evie was empty: he could see nothing in that possible future, just a blackness, a vacuum, a void.

And he was afraid of one of his superiors.

Most of them were fine. They'd even play poker on Friday nights and invite Jackson to join, which he sometimes did—though he missed the old nicknames of his college partners-in-crime. Here, he was just Napier—not Jack, or Jacko, or Joker, in spite of his continued winnings with the wild card. It was not as comfortable as it had once been, with the boys back in the lounge, and he found he only continued to go because it made Evie feel better to think he had friends.

Honestly, he couldn't have cared less. He would just as soon have come home and spent the evening showering with Evie, or combing her hair, or watching her lean over the stove, or listening to her read by the light of the candlelit hearth.

But overall—not a bad group of guys. Some of them he even considered men of good character, if boringly predictable. He supposed he couldn't hold that against them—he was becoming that himself, if not for the odd adventures Evelyn threw his way when he was home. These men—they were controlling, foolish. Naïve, he even thought—ironic for men of the government, in his opinion. He wondered sometimes if they would be shocked to know they had a murderer in their midst. Other times, he thought they might all be murderers in their own rights.

And then there was Nick Salvador.

Salvador was a former field agent and current weapons specialist. He called the shots. He decided what projects Jackson needed to work on, and the projects got uglier and uglier.

That didn't bother Jackson, who—despite the fairly recent absence of violent imaginings involving Evie—still regularly imagined twisting his boss' head around backwards on his neck, or ripping out the windpipe of one of his colleagues in a split-second of mild annoyance.

No, the ugliness of the projects did not bother Jackson, who was satisfied by seeing his weapons explode, incinerate, melt, dissolve, and otherwise destroy varied test subjects and substances. He didn't care, even remotely, that they would someday be used on humans, though he knew it was a source of guilt in many of his colleagues. No. The only thing that bothered him about the content of his work was that it would be sure to horrify Evie.

To put it in simpleton's terms, Jackson just saw something _mean _in Salvador's eyes, something that reminded him of Dave Malone. Malone, who had slashed his face almost from ear to lip because of some petty cash and damaged pride in a poker game. Really, when it came down to it, the poker game was an excuse—Malone hadn't liked Jackson from the start.

Or maybe Salvador reminded him of Donald, when he was drunk, with his pig-mean eyes when he busted open his sons jaw.

Salvador had the same look, and while he was happy to inflict his nastiness on anyone who got in his way, there was a special gleam in his eye reserved entirely for skinny Jackson Napier. Secretly, Salvadore knew Napier's scars were what bothered him—they made the young man look more dangerous and more powerful than Salvador, and they set him on edge. They scared him. They screamed, _I am tough shit. Try and take me._

And Salvador wanted him gone.

Maybe some part of him knew it was petty, but Salvador had been trying for weeks to get Napier to quit—long projects (the kid was a genius—got done too fast), cutting commentary about his work, even some veiled threats.

Jackson was just afraid that sooner or later, Salvador would find his weakness—pretty Evie Napier, who had to park her car in the commuter lots at the university, far from her grad school classes. Who walked alone.

Sometimes the look in Salvador's eyes gave Jackson the chills, just because he thought of what it would be like to have that gaze turn to Evie.

It was a stupid thing that gave it away. Salvador was trying to nitpick a nonexistent flaw in the latest weapons design. He was giving Jackson hell for it. If he hadn't been so anxious, Jackson would have laughed as he calmly batted down every stupid comment the idiot made. Salvador threatened his job. Jackson shrugged it off. Salvador threatened his life; Jackson continued his work without affording the man a second glance. Salvador threatened his balls; Jackson looked bored and unimpressed.

The former field agent was furious. He hated that the skinny kid, just a half-year out of college, could keep his calm while Salvador himself sputtered in impotent fury. He finally grabbed the kid by his strong, skinny neck, and smashed him against the wall while a fellow colleague looked on in shock and nervousness.

"Aren't you married? Is your wife pretty? Maybe I'll—"

He never got a chance to finish the threat. Jackson had their positions reversed before Salvador knew what had happened. His fingers were tight on the man's throat—bruising, anchored around the esophagus.

"I. Will. _End._ You," Jackson hissed, each word distinct and cold and low.

He ripped his hand away—barely leaving the man's throat in one piece—and glowered.

Salvador choked, clutching his abused throat. "Jesus, man—" he gasped. "You're fucking _crazy—"_

"No," Jackson growled. "I'm not."

"It was just a joke," Salvador wheezed, but his eyes glared balefully. The hate Jackson had seen there before was magnified to something almost unrecognizable. "Can't you take a joke? Jesus, man."

"Try it again," Jackson said icily. "We'll see how much of a joker I am."

That afternoon, Salvador filed for permission to dismiss Jackson Napier from employment on grounds of assault. The management did not approve. They knew Nick Salvador's history and secretly applauded that a new employee had made a stand against him. They also knew Jackson Napier was a priceless asset to their team—a chemical and engineering prodigy with an unparalleled imagination. "He's crazy enough to make it work," they would say when they reviewed his determined designs and testing.

Jackson should have remembered the lesson he learned with Donald, and later with Malone. Bullies do not respond kindly to being kicked back.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Christmas. A moderately-sized Christmas tree with blinking lights and a meager handful of ornaments. A floor full of ribbons and paper, because Evie liked to go all out on those things.

She was knotting her hands nervously in the ribbon from leftover packages, waiting for him to open his gift. She always got nervous about these things, which he thought was amusing as hell. She'd be so excited about purchasing "the right gift" that she couldn't keep silent for days and would get giddy and silly about it. Afterward, like a crashing addict, she would develop a sudden terror that her gift was "stupid" and would be terrified to see him open it, afraid of glimpsing some nonexistent disappointment.

He opened the box and found, to his surprise, a luxurious wool pea-coat. It was like his old one from the first years of college, but nicer—top-quality stuff, thick and warm, with good structure. The color was rich as well—a subtle, deep navy-purple.

"You always used to wear purple in college—in your shoelaces and stuff—and the engagement ring—" The amethyst on her hand glinted in the light of their first Christmas tree. "—and it was your favorite color," Evelyn babbled nervously. "I just wanted—I wanted—"

"It's perfect," he said quietly, grinning and feeling more at peace than he'd felt in a long time. He was away from Salvador's incessant pushing for the next five days—though thank God the man hadn't mentioned Evelyn again.

The tension went out of Evie's hunched shoulders and she released the mangle ribbons. "Really?" she said hopefully, sounding doubtful.

He laughed and swept it over his shoulders, admiring the fit of the cuffs on his wrists. "I'll need some leather gloves," he mused. "Black, maybe." The little house was cold in the winter thanks to the poor insulation, but he was always blazing hot, and the coat did wonders too. As for Evie, she was huddled in a veritable mountain of blankets. He hunched his shoulders, cutting a striking and almost scary figure, and leered at her. "Come here, beautiful."

She laughed and retreated deeper into her blankets. "No thanks, love. It's cold out there."

"Then I'll have to come in after you," he mock-threatened, and dove into the fleecy clouds to the sound of her shrieks and giggles.

When they were spent, he burrowed into the blankets with her and tucked the fleece up under her chin, tightly, trying to keep her soft, small body warm. Her fingers and toes always seemed cold to him, but then, he exuded heat. In the waning light, they stared up through the bows of their Christmas tree.

"We need to get the heat fixed for you," he murmured, catching one of her cold feet between his calves and willing his body heat to warm her.

She laughed lightly. "It's not the heat—"

"I know, I know," he cut her off, chuckling. "It's the walls. Still, we can afford some repairs—"

Evelyn shrugged. "I'm in no rush. Better heating means less chance of getting mauled in a pile of blankets by you," she teased, rubbing her cold nose on his. "Less chance of this. No thanks; I'll take the cold."

He laughed and pulled her in tighter, nesting her face into the hollow of his shoulder and resting his chin on her head. Her curls tickled his nose and he shifted, blowing at them. They were silent for a moment; then he sighed.

"You're fidgeting," Jackson pointed out.

She glowered, then took a deep breath. "Don't be mad, okay?"

He offered a warning growl. "Bad way to start, sugar."

She gnawed at her lip. It was rare she engaged in such nervous behavior. "I know I should have told you before," she hedged. "I just didn't think it was important."

He stiffened, then cursed. "What happened?"

She felt like an idiot. "I think—I think someone's been following me. Or, a few someones. Back and forth from the university every day."

He stared at her. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Jackson—"

"With the work I do," he interrupted, his voice cold in a way it hadn't been since the first few months of their friendship, "you didn't think it might be important for me to know?"

"It was stupid," Evie said quietly. "I know it was, and I'm sorry. And you can yell at me all you want—I get that. I'd be just as mad if I thought you might be in danger and hadn't told me."

He froze, then softened. She had said the words pointedly, knowing that in his job there was always the possibility of danger with the added complication of a code of silence. However, she didn't know about Salvador, and it made him feel a little guilty.

"Point taken, beautiful. Now tell me about these 'someones,'" he directed.

There were a few—different cars, different men. Once, a woman. He didn't recognize most of the descriptions she gave, but she saw the tightening of his face when she spoke about a blue Pontiac with a XLI license plate.

"You know him…?" she guessed.

A muscle spasmed in his tight jaw, and his scars stood out against his face. It was Salvador's assistant.

"I do," he said at last, carefully extricating himself from the cocoon of blankets.

"No!" she scowled, her fingers catching at his wrist. "For God's sake, where are you going?"

"I'm going to take care of this," he snapped at her.

"Not today," she snapped back, her own ire rising. "It's Christmas!"

He looked mutinous and she frowned, her eyes softening. "I know you're worried—but you're _here_ today. Nothing will happen. Do whatever you have to do—make your phone calls or whatever—do it later. Tomorrow. In two days. For now..." She lifted the edge of the blanket. "…come back to our nest."

He stilled, his pulse still hammering in his ears.

"So serious," she mock-pouted, the blanket still open. He could see the edge of her bare thigh.

He sighed and shook his head, a half-smile on the good side of his face. "So stubborn."

"Pig-headed," she corrected.

"You'll be the death of me," he told her, creeping back into the warmth of the blankets and her flushed body.

"I plan on it," she murmured throatily, kissing both sides of his face. "Come here, love. Let's put a smile on that face."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

At one in the morning, Jackson carried his sleeping wife to bed and tucked her in with extra blankets. Then he put on his clothes and new coat and left, locking the door carefully behind him.

When he found Salvador in a local bar, he waited till closing time. It wasn't surprising the man was there—of course he didn't have family to spend the holidays with, Jackson thought with a smirk. The idiot was completely unbearable.

Nick Salvador was one of the last men out that night—drunk, but not staggering. Nonetheless, he was witless enough to not notice Jackson until he was pinned backwards against the roof of his own car, an old switchblade in his mouth.

"Do you want to know how I got these scars?" Jackson asked, twitching his head to indicate the macabre half-crescent on one side of his face, including the ones on his lower lip and chin in the general gesture as well.

Salvador stared up at him, eyes wide. His buzz had dissipated immediately in the presence of the cold steel in his mouth. He thought for a second he would hurl, and it had nothing to do with the drinks he'd had that night.

"See, I had this pretty little girlfriend," Jackson hissed, "and a good working relationship with some of the guys on campus in undergrad. They genuinely _liked_ me—and there was one fucker on campus who _didn't_ have that life, and he was _jealous._"

The story wasn't entirely true, Jackson knew—Malone had always been a little scared of him, scared of his scars and his lean, lanky, predatory attitude. It had taken a long time till anyone but Evie _wasn't_ afraid of him.

But for the intents and purposes of what he was doing here, with Salvador, this version of the story was the best.

"So he decided one day to get in a knife fight with me. Except, of course, that he thought I was weaponless. Helpless. And this is what he did—he stabbed me through the fucking cheek." Jackson brought his face close to Salvador's. _"I was okay with that."_ He wanted to make sure the fucker understood it, that he got the look in Jackson's eyes.

"But then he threatened my girlfriend. She was such a pretty thing. Said he'd destroy her." Jackson eyed the former field agent meaningfully. "I shattered his ribs and threw him in a river. The police never even questioned me."

Salvador had a ribbon of helpless drool running down his cheek, where the knife was pressed.

"Funny story," Jackson said lightly, stealing a line Evie had used on him once—_Funny story,_ she'd said, her mouth wobbling in a sad smile as she spoke of the boy who raped her. He twitched the knife purposefully. "This was the knife he used."

Salvador's eyes bugged.

"Now I hear you have a tracker on my wife," Jackson said quietly. "Show me a magic trick, Salvador—_make it disappear._ This is your only warning. I'd kill you now, but I don't know if I could get away with three murders in my life, and I don't want Evie to find out."

A whimper rose in the weapon specialist's throat, and Jackson grinned maliciously. His scars pulled back garishly, like something from a nightmare.

The sharp scent of urine filled the air, and Jackson's smile grew even wider—meaner.

"Did I ever tell you that you remind me of my father?" he asked, his voice full of both gleeful satisfaction and contempt. He pulled the knife carefully from Salvador's mouth, leaving just a shallow cut in the corner of the man's lips. His grin grew wider, and he chuckled menacingly, still pinning the older man to the car. _"I slit my father's throat."_

Then he whirled and stalked away, a dark figure in the pale falling snow, calling over his shoulder, "You better hope you didn't get piss on my new coat."

Salvador sank to his knees in the slush and vomited.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The next two days passed like a dream. When Evie wasn't aware, Jackson was researching prices for pets and their subsequent care. He wasn't kidding about the "fucking puppy," and he anxious to get an added layer of protection for Evie, just in case his chat with Salvador hadn't gone quite as well as he thought. Rottweilers, he thought. They were cute, and actually well-behaved, but they would also protect her no matter what. Or maybe a German Shepherd—

The chain of events was simple, though afterwards he could never quite remember them properly. Evelyn asked him to go out for milk. He went. He stopped outside of a pet store, eyeing a kennel for sale and trying to decide if he should get one when he purchased the pup. A kennel might defeat the purpose if the dog was locked up when she needed it.

If he hadn't said yes to getting the milk—if he'd instead made love to her in the kitchen like he'd wanted to—or had asked her to come with him, maybe given her hints as to what he was thinking about the dog by stopping with her at the pet store… Or if he hadn't stopped at the pet store at all and had come straight home instead—

It would have all been different.

Instead, he came in, still pondering the kennel and taking off his new coat and flinging it on the coatrack by the door. His scars turned the color of wine or blood in the cold and burned him deeply, but he didn't notice. "Hellooooo, beautiful—" he called out, half-turning.

"Jackson," she choked out, and he saw her pale face and her eyes like dark stars, full of both dread and hope and an indescribably sorrowful and infinite love. Her pointed chin was pinched between Salvador's clammy fingers. Jackson could see the pulse in her throat.

He started forward, but there was a crack as Evie's head jerked, and her eyes—_deep dark wells full of floating lanterns, laughing, smiling, shining—_went dull and glassy. The pulse in her throat just—stopped. He stared where it had been, wondering where it had gone.

The milk fell from his nerveless fingers. The plastic container broke; it poured out white on the floor.

Salvador's men locked his arms back before he could breathe, before he could realize what happened. Salvador tipped the white oval of Evie's pale face up and kissed her lips, then dropped her unceremoniously on the floor. The sound of her body hitting the ground was surprisingly soft, Jackson thought—like the sound of wind in a pile of fallen leaves. Her body was bent weirdly, all wrong and limp and uncomfortable. He hadn't ever realized she was so small. He jolted toward her again, but the arms held him back.

The lights on the Christmas tree blinked.

Salvador plowed his fist into Jackson's belly, knocking the wind from his lungs. Jackson wheezed but couldn't tear his eyes away, still straining against the men who held him. He thought if he could just _touch_ her—

Another of Salvador's guys came in from the little kitchen, hauling a 5-gallon container of something—gasoline, perhaps? The man splashed it over the tree; on the floor, the couch, the pile of fleece blankets. He doused the curtains that Evie's mom had made and sent from six states away. It didn't smell like gasoline, and it looked thicker, almost syrupy.

Oil.

Jackson didn't even notice. He kept straining. One of his shoulders popped sickeningly, and the thug holding that arm almost let go in surprise—the young man had dislocated his own shoulder without a sound, still writhing and struggling, his feet sliding on the ground as he fought uselessly.

"Fucking _crazy,_" Salvador spat, eyeing the boy. He picked up the coat from the coatrack, grimaced, and threw it at the Christmas tree. The tree swayed, but held the coat on its branches. "Douse that rag, too," Salvador snapped at his henchman.

It wasn't till they started pouring the thick oil over Evie's limp body that he realized what was going on.

"_No!" _ he screamed. The words tore at his throat and he tasted blood. _"No—no—don't you fucking DARE—"_

"You're not calling the shots anymore, Napier," Salvador sneered, and struck a match. He flung it toward the lifeless body on the floor. Immediately, her clothes and curls lit up in flames.

The fire snaked along the floor, but Salvador wanted to make sure Jackson got a good view of the burning body before he let his men back out the door, the young man dragged screaming. His dislocated shoulder was wrenching horribly. His feet dragged on the ground. He grabbed the doorway as they crossed the threshold; three nails scraped the doorjamb and snapped off at the cuticle. All he could see was her blazing body—_we need to get the heat fixed for you—_and he kept expecting her to get up, her eyes full of light and laughter, so alive and buoyant, _full_ again—and then he would be afraid she'd wake up, burning, and he almost was glad she was dead just so she didn't have to go by fire—

They were talking to him. Salvador was. He was saying—

"I'd break your legs if I thought it would do any good," he was growling. "Keep you from going back in. But I see it won't. So we'll just wait here with you." He was grinning, but Jackson couldn't see it—his eyes were glued to the door of the pretty, slanted house. The peeling, blackening paint—_and Evie inside, Evie dancing in the sprinklers, her wet hair flying, Evie in the bathtub with the smell of honeysuckle heavy on the air—_and the hibernating honeysuckle bushes were catching fire, the icicles on them melting, the snow falling through in a _whoosh,_ and _someone had to be calling the cops, right? The police had never done anything good for him but maybe—maybe this time—_

"Think about this, Napier. Your little house. How hard did you work for that piece of shit? That Christmas tree. The photos on the wall. Your fucking _coat,_" Salvador snapped. "Your little bombshell of a wife."

The police weren't coming—neither was the fire department. Unbelievable in this city—a fuckin' _joke_.

The roof caved in. Jackson sagged in the snow.

Salvador leaned into his face, pulling him up by his scarred lower lip as the men hastily released his arms. Jackson's eyes were empty—almost as dead as Evie's had been.

"Think about these things, Napier," Salvador said coldly, his eyes glinting with amused malice. "And think about _this_ the next time to decide to threaten a man like me—"

He leaned closer, his voice lower.

"—_Everything_ burns."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	7. Part VII: Travelling With Illusions

**Title: The Magic Trick**

**Part VII: Travelling with Illusions**

**Summary: "Sometimes I look at you," Jackson said softly, cradling her face with just the tips of his fingers on both hands. "Sometimes I look at you, and I think—how easy it would be to just snap your neck."** **The drunken father, the butchered mother. The gambling troubles, the pretty and assaulted wife. It's always about a lady… "Do you wanna know how I got these scars?" An in-depth character sketch, complete with romantic interlude. ******

**A/N: Gratuitous violence. Beware. **

**The last verse has been lifted from a fantastic text called **_**The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven,**_** and it's by Sherman Alexie, who is—incidentally—one of the greatest writers to walk this planet. I took the liberty of substituting the word "boy" for "Indian." 'Cause, well, I think the Joker is…not. But it was such a gorgeous line, and so perfect, I had to use it.**

**And, one last time—don't be mean! :)**

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He wasn't unconscious when the ambulance and fire department finally came, but he wasn't all there, either. His brain hurt—the lights were too bright—and all he could see were Evie's eyes going dull. He felt like snakeskin, shiny and dark and full of caught light, and then how it was after it had been shed.

Empty. And thin.

When he finally became fully aware of his surroundings, he was in a hospital bed. The sheets felt like thin layers of cardboard, or stiff paper. He guessed they were checking him for smoke inhalation. Maybe shock.

Then he remembered Evelyn—the pulse in her smooth throat, which stopped.

He lurched from the bed, howling, bellowing for Evie, for Nick Salvador. Two armed policemen burst into the room, scanning everything, as he stumbled out of bed. His knees gave out beneath him, and he hit the tile _hard._ If he'd been looking, he'd have seen the police cringe at the sharp crack.

A nurse came in—a large woman, with bottle-blond hair. The police grabbed at his clawing, desperate arms; held him steady as she slipped a needle in his neck. Jackson sagged on the floor.

"Evelyn," he whispered, pressing his scarred cheek onto the cold tile. It felt slick and wet beneath him, and it smelled like Lysol and tears. "Evelyn."

"Poor bastard," he heard one of the policemen say.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When he woke again, he'd been dreaming of her. His face felt tight, and he licked his lips. No blood this time, but salt.

The policemen were waiting for him, sitting in chairs by his bed. When his eyes flicked open—suddenly, because Jackson had never been a slow waker—they jolted and looked wary, cautious.

"Are you okay, Mr Napier?" the younger one asked, sounding hesitant.

His tongue slipped out. He licked his lips again. He was parched. "Where's Evie?"

Both men looked uncomfortable, maybe even a little ashamed.

"Mr Napier," the older, heavier one broke in. His voice was slow, selecting words carefully. "You're suffering from shock. Your wife—"

Jackson closed his eyes and ears. He thought of her lifted above him in the sprinklers, her hair a wet curtain. He thought of her dancing. He thought of the honeysuckle outside their house.

He knew she was dead.

The pain this time was a slow dawn, splintering the horizon. Shards of it got caught in his throat. He gasped, choked. One of the officers pounded him on the back until he could breathe again.

"Mr Napier, we need you to answer some questions for us," the older officer said quietly. Jackson realized he was holding a notepad. "This was obviously foul play. If you know who did this—"

Jackson raised his head slowly. His eyes were almost aglow with bitterness. The cops—whose names were Dawson and Lever—would never have guessed what he was remembering: his mother, mowed down by a reckless police squad. The time the old lady in the next apartment over called the cops because his dad was beating him, and they joked and chatted with Donald and left, in spite of the fact that little Jack-o was crying on the couch with a rapidly-swelling black eye. The handful of social workers who came and went, relatively unperturbed. The police incompetence when it came to dealing with Dave Malone's murder.

He thought of how Evelyn's body burned, and they didn't even come till it was far, far too late.

_Incompetent. Pathetic. The system doesn't work. Control is an illusion—and not even a particularly comforting one._ After all—hadn't he tried? Hadn't he had a plan? For Evie to go to school. For him to work. For them to maybe have babies someday. To get a _fucking puppy—_

_I'm with you,_ she'd said. But she wasn't. His lungs felt tight.

He thought of the minor gods of chaos, and wondered if he hadn't worshipped at their shrine quite enough.

No. That was crazy thinking, and he was anything but crazy.

_You're crazy,_ he heard Donald sneer in his mind.

But he wasn't. Instead, Jackson was seeing things with a kind of lucid clarity he had never experienced before. Lines of cause and effect, different possibilities, stretched out before him like a roadmap.

Besides, Salvador was a weapons specialist and a former field agent. He was with a higher level of government. Even if he didn't have these two in his pocket already—he would pull strings. He would get what he wanted. That's what schemers _did._

Or at least, that's what they tried to do.

"I don't," he muttered, and looked away. "I don't know _anything."_

Dawson and Lever were silent. The young one—Lever—tried then, "Sir, we have reason to believe Mr. Nicholas Salvador was somehow involved in this—"

Jackson struggled not to let his hands tighten on the sheets.

"—if you know anything, maybe we can help put things to rights."

Jackson snorted. _Flippancy. _He chuckled. He imagined her burning hair. _I'm with you._

"This isn't a laughing matter, Mr Napier," Officer Dawson said, but his voice was soft. Like he understood, or somehow thought he could.

"I don't. Know. _Anything,"_ Jackson growled, clearly enunciating each word. "Nobody does. This world is a madhouse. Now go away and leave me alone."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

They didn't leave him alone—not for a few hours. They chatted at him, though he didn't answer—played poker with a complimentary deck of cards from the hospital. On the other hand, he didn't really expect them to. He simply stared into the distance. He could outwait them.

And he did.

They left sometime after the nurse took his still-full dinner tray away. Once they left, he laid back down, rolled over, and stared at the wall till he drifted into a light doze.

He woke up at eight in the evening, and again at nine. At eleven, and eleven-thirty. Just past midnight. Each time he dreamed of her, thought she was still alive. He was surprised when he rolled over on the hospital bed and reached for her, only to find her gone.

Each time he woke up, he lost her all over again.

Hundred different times, a hundred different ways—he lost her again and again. Every time he woke up, the pain was new.

Sometimes he stared at the wall in silence, feeling hollow. His eyes didn't blink at all. Other times he cried, or staggered around the small room like a drunk. Once, he ripped off the hospital gown and got dressed in his old clothes, folded on the chair. Never mind that they smelled like smoke and stale oil. He played cards with the pack the policemen had left behind; tucked the deck in his back jeans-pocket. He examined his hands, where the three nails had snapped off. They'd bled through the gauze.

The last time, when he fell asleep, he dreamed that she was still alive, and it was Christmas Eve. They were walking through the snow and she was in a satin sundress, barefoot, which he didn't think was strange at all, despite the snow. He was in his new purple coat, but it was velvet, not wool. She turned under a yellow streetlamp, taking both his scarred hands in hers. It was outside the bar where he'd threatened Salvador. The falling snow gathered on her lashes. "Kiss me goodbye," she instructed, but before he could, a truck came out of nowhere and slammed into her. He was left holding her hands, without her body attached to them.

He tried to find her body, but the only thing on the other side of the street was a dumpster. He crawled behind it, calling her name, and when he got to the other side the sun was rising. His mother was staring down at him, her bronze hair—_like his_—a halo of light. "She needs you, Jacko," his mother said, but her mouth didn't move—her voice came from her stomach. He looked down and saw she was holding in her entrails. _"Everything burns."_

His mother looked over her shoulder in the golden light. He followed her gaze—and there was Evie. Her mouth was open in a silent scream, flames licking her lips as she was burnt from the inside out. He watched her hair smolder and melt, and flames shot out of her fingers.

He lurched forward, trying to help her. He thought if he could just touch her, he could soothe all her burns, put the fires out. But his foot caught on something, and he fell, scraping the skin off his knees and the heels of his palms. He looked over his shoulder and saw the hands grappling at his ankles, his pants—they came straight from the cracked pavement. He didn't know how, but he recognized them: they were the hands of his father, and David Malone. They were the hands of the police officers who'd chatted with his dad in the living room while he cried, and the ones who killed his mother, and the drug dealers who'd held her hostage. There were hands he knew belonged to Salvador, and Evelyn's ex, Alex, whom Jackson had never met.

He kicked at them, struggling to break free, and he watched Evie being burned alive.

Jackson came to, screaming, as a nurse attempted to hush him. She had brown curly hair and smelled like honeysuckle, and before she could do anything about it, he had tumbled out of his bed, falling hard on his bad hip. He didn't notice though—the blankets were tangled around his ankles like clawed and eager hands. He just thought, for a moment, that she was Evelyn, and he rose to his knees, winding his arms around her narrow waist and burying his face in her soft stomach, breathing her in.

"Evie, Evie, Evie," he repeated, the words muffled in her uniform. The nurse tried to back away; he simply shuffled on his knees with her. The sheets dragged behind him, sweeping the floor.

"Sir—sir, please," she said nervously, and when he looked up, he realized she wasn't Evie at all. Her hair was lighter, without the copper and gold strands, and it was shorter, too. Her eyes were pale blue, nothing like the doe's-eyes and dark stars that were Evie's. In fact, she didn't smell like their new home or the honeysuckle outside at all—all he could smell was disinfectant and burnt hair.

He backed away quickly, bumping into the bed and looking scared, and the nurse looked torn.

"I'm going to see about getting you another sedative," she said, and scurried to the door.

He stood slowly, woozily. The world spun and he leaned on the bed, then the counter. "I don't want to sleep," he called after her, but his voice was a shallow, creaking whisper. "Every time I wake—" He wheezed, tried again. "Every time I wake up, she's gone."

Nothing. The room was empty—just blue and purple shadows. Even his whisper echoed. He moved to the door, wobbling, and found the corridor still and dark. He could hear the second-hand of the clock on the wall—two twenty-six in the morning. He lurched down the hall. The cold tile bit his feet, but he didn't feel it.

The morgue was easy to find.

He simply entered all the doors that said he couldn't—he'd never been one for rules anyway.

_Chaos, chaos_. It was a mantra in his head.

Her body was just as easy to find, and he pulled her from the cooler. All her limbs were stiff and brittle; folded in almost exactly as they had been when Salvador had casually dropped her to the floor. Her fingers cracked off when he touched them. Her nose crumbled. He didn't think that was supposed to happen.

_Why so serious?_

He thought the whisper was real at first, and looked around the cold room. He had pulled her body up tightly to his chest and was pressing his nose to the reddish-brown dome of her skull. Burnt skin flaked off under his lips.

_Why so serious?_ Hadn't she asked him that once, a hundred times? He trailed his finger over her brow, where her nose should have been, across her stony, shriveled lips. It was the same path her hands had travelled a number of times on his own face, marking his scars, noting his solemnity. He set her down carefully and walked to the sink, next to the hazardous waste can full of rubber gloves.

He was ugly. He saw that now, in a way he'd never been fully able to appreciate when Evie was kissing his scars. Maybe not all of him, maybe not once upon a time. But now, with that ghoulish half-smile and tattered lip, with the furrowed brow and the haunted eyes—he looked every inch as terrifying and dangerous as a bogeyman.

For a moment, in the mirror, he thought he saw her, laughing, a brown-haired dancing sprite with water in her hair. Her eyes caught his, and she looked sad.

_So serious. _

_You know what I think? I think you worry too much. You should smile more. _

_You have a gorgeous smile._

He could remember every moment, he thought. Enough to replay them for the rest of his life, if he chose.

The mirror was empty now, except for his face. He leaned harder on the porcelain sink, the whipcord muscles standing taut in his forearms. He stared into his own eyes, trying to find something.

The scars pulled at his cheek and lip. His brows were furrowed, like always. He looked angry, angrier than usual.

He _was_ angrier than usual. And he was so…broken. He didn't know how to make it stop. He licked his lips instead.

_Here I thought you were asking for intervention from the saints of solemnity._

He looked around, spotted the shining tools. Without having any idea what he would do next, he made a fist around a bright scalpel. He lifted it to his face and slid it into his mouth, against his good cheek.

_Funny story,_ he remembered. _Flippancy is my best defense. _

_So serious, my love._

_Let's put a smile on that face._

He tore the skin slowly.

Blood poured over his cheek, black in the dim coolness of the room. Gallons, he thought. He remembered: head-wounds bleed.

He could barely even feel the pain in his cheek. It just felt hot, and white. He didn't think he could feel anything anymore.

_I'm with you._

The blood slid down his neck and stained his collar. He rinsed the scalpel in the sink and went to put it back, then tucked it in his waistband instead—next to the switchblade he'd carried since he was a kid, and Dave Malone's nasty little weapon, the one he'd threatened Nick Salvador with—

_Should have killed him there._

His cheek kept pouring blood. He grayed out for a moment, swaying against the sink—maybe his brain registered pain and blood loss where the rest of him didn't. He staggered to the supply cabinets—they were locked. He broke through the glass and found some surgical thread. A needle.

His stitches were sloppier this time, ragged. He realized he was wheezing when his breath sprayed a fine mist of red over the mirror.

He cleaned his cheek as carefully as he could. He patted it dry and covered it in gauze, taping it down. He kissed Evie's forehead—_so tiny, so cold, she'd never seemed so small, he kept expecting her to move and dance—_and walked calmly out of the morgue.

Nurses and doctors were racing, looking for a young man in shock—him. Their eyes slid over his bandaged wound and dismissed him—a torn cheek wasn't in the description. He walked out without a problem, just looking like he knew where he was going.

By the time he got to the street, his bandage had bled through.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nick Salvador left his fancy little one-story ranch at seven in the morning. Jackson sunk down in the low seat of his car, knowing that the idiot was too cocky to even think he might be being stalked. Jackson didn't know what he was going to do yet—decided not to even try planning things any more.

He would just—_do_—things, as they came to him.

He grinned, baring his teeth, when Salvador came out. He hadn't noticed, two nights before, but Evie must not have gone down without a fight. The former field agent was obviously battered—even from a distance, his face looked puffy and discolored.

Jackson couldn't wait to see it up close.

He waited another hour, till he was sure Salvador was at work, before pulling his hat low on his eyes and walking purposefully up the path and into the house.

He laughed at the sight of the house inside—hardwood floors, oriental rugs, Tiffany lamps. It was _nothing_ next to his house, with the white slanted boards and the splintered sidewalk and the honeysuckle and the broken fireplace and the old cracked bathtub where Evie soaked with one slim, glistening calf draped over the edge—

_Evie._

The laughing made his cheek bleed again, but he almost didn't notice. He felt the wetness, not the pain. On a whim, he bare-knuckle punched every lightbulb he could find, shattering them without causing undue damage to the pretty furnishings. Then he strolled through the sunlit house, whistling as the glass crunched under his feet. Sometimes he dragged his shoes, imagining the shining floors getting all scratched up beneath his boots.

He found some interesting things in the basement, the garage, the attic. He hadn't decided yet what—if anything—he was going to use them for. Just in case, he piled them in the living room—well, threw them carelessly, to be honest. Things splashed and tangled in the haphazard mountain of cords and cans he'd acquired.

One time, while he was hard-wiring some nasty little items together, he thought Evie would have been horrified at him. He imagined her stricken face clearly, almost like she was there with him.

He shook the image away and tried to picture her dancing, instead.

At dusk, he sat down at the table in the kitchen and pulled out the complimentary deck of cards he'd stolen—albeit accidentally—from the hospital. He dealt a hand of poker—waited.

The key turned in the lock. Salvador entered and dropped his briefcase, then reached for the lightswitch in the pale shadows. He flicked it a few times when nothing happened.

Jackson snickered at the pointless groping, and Salvador whirled in alarm at the sound.

He couldn't see who it was—just a dark, slumped figure at the table, arms outstretched on either side of a game of cards. The shape was staring down at them, reading his hand.

He looked up slowly, grinning in the dim light. His stitches pulled and bled. He licked his lips.

"Why, hello there, Nicky."

Salvador bumped back against the wall, then crept forward, just a step or two, peering into the shadows. "Napier?" He forced a chuckle. "Jesus, man, what happened to your face?"

His grin stretched wider. Blood dribbled down to his chin. "Wanna know how I got these scars?"

Salvador spun backward, yanking at the doorknob, which Jackson neatly shot. The weapons specialist yelped and leapt away, his hand bleeding. "Holy fuck, Napier!" he shouted. "What the hell was that for?!"

Jackson howled with laughter. "You—you should have seen your face. Priceless!" He calmed, gasping for breath, and asked with genuine curiosity: "Did I take off a finger?"

Salvador's face was pale and greasy with sweat as he clutched his hand.

Jackson chuckled and shook his head, then lashed out one foot to kick the chair opposite him out from under the table. "Sit down, you shithead," he directed, still grinning. His blood looked black in the shadows. "Do you really not know what that was far? Not a smart cookie, are you?"

Salvador stumbled to the chair, his eyes on the gun.

"Relax," Jackson instructed. "Don't worry; I'm not going to use the gun—not unless you make me."

The older man's eyes flew back to the door. Jackson reached out one long leg again and hooked his ankle around a leg of the chair, yanking Salvador back in to the table. The specialist's eyes widened when he realized how strong the kid was.

"Na-ta-ta-ta-ta," Jackson said coolly, his grin fading. "I saw you looking at the door. Sit and play with me," he added, nodding to Salvador's hand. "A simple game of poker." He smiled beatifically. "Joker's wild."

"W—what are the stakes?"Salvador asked, his mouth trembling.

Jackson let his grin reappear, slowly this time, and said nothing.

They played in near-silence, till Jackson broke it. "You're a schemer," he said mildly, conversationally. "A schemer and a coward, coming to my place when I wasn't even home. Attacking my wife with five other men." He eyed the former field agent speculatively, taking in the puffy black eye, the split eyebrow and lip, the stitches where his nostrils had both been torn open. His left hand looked burned and bruised. "Though I'm guessing she was more of a handful than you thought. She knows how to fight, Evie does."

Salvador hesitated, obviously not knowing how to respond to the madman with the gun. "She smashed my hand with a hot fry pan and clocked me in the face with her fist, just for starters," he admitted at last, touching one hand to his eyebrow. He was nervous, but there was really nothing to lose at this point.

Jackson grinned again. Salvador thought the boy had smiled more in the last fifteen minutes than in the entire time he'd known him—which, looking back, was still quite brief. It made him sweat.

"That's my Evelyn," Jackson mused, still grinning and leaning back in his chair.

They continued playing. When the game was finally over, Jackson had clearly won. He held up the wildcard, a drop of his own blood on the card.

"This guy always seems to be on my side," he mused, and before Salvador could blink, Jackson was across the table on his stomach, gripping Salvador's sweaty chin, forcing his mouth open and shoving the card halfway down his throat. Salvador gagged and struggled, but Jackson had him by the throat.

"Leave it," he hissed, after he had the card placed—half-folded and cutting into the soft, far parts of Salvador's mouth. The man coughed, choked, but tried not to move—at least until Jackson started duct taping him to the chair. Then he struggled as hard as he could.

It didn't matter. The younger man was lean, but he was well-muscled and almost inhumanly strong. He secured the former field agent to the chair, then stood back, grinning.

"Wait here," he said, snickering, and frowned when Salvador just stared, wide-eyed. "It was a joke," Jackson informed him, scowling as he left the room.

He returned with a makeshift bomb and a few cans of gasoline. "It's not oil, but I do what I can," he said lightly, setting the items down on the table. "You know—karmic justice." He picked up the bomb, showcased it like a gameshow host. "Like it? I made it in my free time today with some stuff you had lying around." He clucked his tongue admonishingly. "You should really be more careful, old man. Some of this stuff might not kill you, but it'll cause enough damage to make you wish you were dead."

He started strapping the device on to Salvador's lap. "I've decided on my new career path," he continued conversationally. "Part-time anarchist, patron saint of chaos. I'm going to set some amazing things in motion, Salvador—just to see where they go. The illusion of control is history." He grinned. "I'm also gonna be a full-time storyteller," he added, pulling a gas can from the table to the floor. Five gallons, tucked neatly under the chair Salvador was sitting on. He rigged the bomb to the gas can. "Want to hear my starter-story? Know how I got these scars?"

Salvador whined. The damp card fluttered and rattled in his mouth, making him choke again.

"Knock it off," Jackson snapped, reaching up to box the older man's ear. "And for god's sake, hold your bowels this time, you stupid twat."

He paused, and then started again. "See, I had this pretty little wife once. A goddess, really, a queen among woman. A true lady of class. She was sassy and smart. She tells me that I'm too serious, that I need to lighten up, that I oughta _smile more._ And I tried, I really tried. But I couldn't do it.

"And then I start working with this _asshole_…who decides to take it on himself to make my life miserable. He starts stalking my Lady, and one day, on Christmas, when I'm out shopping for a puppy to bring home to her, he breaks into my house with five fucking goons and _snaps _

_her_

_goddamn _

_neck."_

Jackson stood up and leaned into Salvador's face, his nostrils flaring. The blood on his cheek had dried in a series of crusty rivers and smudges. The skin was inflamed and puckered around the stitches, looking purple in the dimness. His other cheek was pale, but as rippled and lumpy as cottage cheese.

Salvador tried not to whimper.

"Then he burns our house down, with her in it," the madman continued, moving behind Salvador. The specialist couldn't see what he was doing, but he could hear noises that terrified him. Jackson was rigging him up to something else—probably also combustible. Or explosive. Or—

Jackson came back around and crouched in front of Salvador. "Look at me," he ordered. Then—_"Look at me!"_

Salvador looked.

"The ambulance takes me to the hospital. Apparently I'm in shock. I break into the morgue to see her, but all that's left is ash and brown bones. Parts of her break when I touch them. I can't even hold my dead wife." He bared his teeth. "I remember her saying, _Jackson, you should smile more._ So I take a scalpel to my own face. This one, as a matter of fact," he added, holding up a thin instrument. It gleamed in the fading light.

Salvador cringed back, but Jackson just held the blade for a moment, examining its shine. His eyes met the weapons specialist's, and he grinned ferally before snapping the blade upside down and plunging it into Salvador's thigh.

The man howled, the card in his throat fluttering like making him gag.

"Sh-sh-sh," Jackson hushed him, petting his face. "Calm down—you'll choke yourself."

Tears leaked out of Salvador's eyes. Jackson pulled her face lower, still kneeling in front of him, and stared deep into the man's terrified eyes.

"After all I worked for and everything I did to keep her safe and untouched, this is what happened," Jackson said, his voice low and confiding as he plucked the scalpel out of Salvador's leg, wiped it on his shirt, and tucked it away. "Now I see the funny side. Now I'm smiling all the time."

He stood and paused, tilting his head, and asked the man—

"Why so serious, Salvador? Don't you remember what you told me?"

His smile was nasty and sharp as he lowered his face to his victim's. A drop of blood spilled from Jackson's cheek onto Salvador's.

"_Everything_ burns."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He did not stay after blowing the house—and Salvador—sky-high. He knew the police would figure it out, if they weren't completely inept. Motive aside, he'd left his cards from the hospital there, with one shoved down the government agent's throat.

Instead he moved on to each of the five other men involved in the murder. They were nothing as intense as his little stunt with Salvador—he told them his story, which changed a little every time, and killed them.

"Let's put a smile on that face," he'd rasp at them, and slit their cheeks from ear to ear.

Sometimes it would be after snapping their necks, slitting their throats, or shooting them in the head. Dead and silent, the wounds almost looked clean with no heartbeat to push the blood through. Just as often, however, Jackson would simply cut their faces like his own, and watch while they shrieked and screamed, tearing the skin back as far as their temples. They would die of trauma and bloodloss, unable to keep the cool head he'd managed all these years.

He left a wildcard with every one of them, amused by it.

When he was done with them, he continued east, toward the big cities on the coast, toward New England and New York, away from home. Motiveless, he'd simply press buttons—see who he could piss off. He was riding for months—maybe even years. He lost track of time.

He continued to imagine Evie. It was part of his daily life. But one morning, he woke up, and for a minute, he couldn't remember her name. All he could think was—_the Lady, the Lady._ It terrified him, panicked him, and enraged him—though he didn't know _why—_and he went out and stole a van and drove it for hours straight. He felt like he was grasping for something—something important, like oxygen or sanity or life—but it kept slipping through his fingers, and he didn't know what it was.

He ended up randomly killing a convenience store cashier whose nametag said _Alex,_ and it made him feel better. He didn't know why. He decided it must have just been the adrenaline rush, the violence.

It happened a few more times. He'd realize he couldn't remember her name, or he'd forget about her entirely until he passed a honeysuckle bush, or a brown-haired girl. Sometimes he couldn't even remember what it was he couldn't remember, and it threw him into a rage. Always, hours later—in a different town, or a different state—something small and soothing would happen and he'd recall it:

_Evie._

_Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn._

The first few hours of his returned memory were spent repeating the name like a prayer. Then, slowly, he'd pick himself up and look around, trying to orient himself and figure out where he was. Sometimes, in one of his lost moments, he couldn't see the road for tears or rage or hysterical laughter. There was one time when he couldn't remember her for days, and he didn't register where he was during that time.

Almost a full week later, he shook himself awake at the steering wheel in a parking lot in a dark city.

_Evie,_ he remembered, and stepped from the car, taking in the monstrous shadows and even more monstrous buildings. He touched the scars on his left cheek, then on his right—they felt like knotted silk and pebbles. She stood beside him like a ghost, looking sad and lost in this strange world, a lady of class in a satin sundress.

_I'm with you_.

"Only one city in the world that could take itself this seriously, beautiful," he said to her, licking his lips with approval. "Nesting ground of mobsters and corrupt cops—sounds like home to me. A good place to get a start and settle down." He grinned. The scars peeled his lips back from his teeth.

A lesser man might have quailed in fear at the sight.

"Welcome to Gotham City."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_The Joker lounged in his new warehouse lair, feeling very self-satisfied and kingly._

"_I remember the first time I heard of the Batman," he told one of his henchmen…Billy. George. Freddie. Something like that. "It was about two or three years ago, when he was still new. So I was twenty six. Or maybe thirty. I'm not sure."_

_The thug—whose name was really Jonah—gulped nervously and tried to look interested. He had been reading the paper, had it pinned open with some of the bricks from the main line. It was a Masonry and Brick Manufacturing factory, once upon a time—now it was the Joker's temporary residence._

"_Why don't you share?"_

_The voice was raspy, gravelly, low. The Joker recognized it instantly and leapt to his feet, eyes searching the shadowed rafters overhead. "If it isn't the Batman! I would have invited you to the housewarming party but I couldn't find your address in the book—"_

_A dark figure swung down from the rafters, his fist already poised to knock the Joker off his feet. The madman stumbled and fell under the blow. From his back on the floor, the Joker laughed madly._

"_Still at full strength, I see," the Joker snickered. "You really want me to share?" _

_The Batman yanked him to his feet and slammed him against the wall. The thugs scattered like roaches, but the Joker didn't even notice._

"_I'll tell you, Bat. I was twenty-six when I moved here—or maybe thirty. I don't remember. Causing mayhem. I had a _vision._ And then, just a little while later—I heard about you, and how the mob was terrified of you. And I decided to catch their attention with some antics of my own."_

_The bigger man started to haul the Joker toward the door, but the Joker wasn't done yet. "Na-ta-ta-ta-ta," he snapped, grabbing one of the bricks from a table as he passed. Freddie—John—Marcus—one of the boys had been using it for a paperweight. "I'm not _done yet_—"_

_He smashed the brick against the side of the Batman's head, and the dark knight's neck snapped sideways. He released the Joker and staggered, gripping his head painfully._

"_As I was saying," the Joker continued, chuckling. "Sit down, won't you?—As I was saying, I caught the mob's attention and before I knew it, I was hunting you down. I thought it would be good fun." He shrugged, hands raised. "What can I say? I was young. I was naïve."_

_The Batman staggered toward him and swung a fist, but the Joker just ducked. "I think you're drunk," he said conversationally. "Would you please just _sit. The fuck. Down?_"_

_The Joker shoved him roughly, and the Bat went tumbling onto a chair and then the floor. The Joker burst out laughing. "Good one," he decided, grinning. "So anyway, you know, the more I learned about you, the more I liked you. I realized—we're kindred spirits. I used to be a vigilante, too, of sorts. I think I killed a couple of bad men—murderers of innocent women—when I started out. In so many ways, we're really the exact same—I'm just farther along than you. More alive than you." He paused. "'Unbeing dead isn't being alive,'" he quoted, not knowing the source. "And I'm the most-alive man there is." _

_The Joker grinned and leaned forward, his hands in his pockets, looking nonchalant. "You know that, right? I mean, that's the _real_ magic trick, isn't it, my friend? That just one bad day—'cause it was, wasn't it? One _really bad day_—can turn your whole life upside down. Can throw you over the edge. All you need is that one moment, and everything else you knew—it just—" He waved his hands in front of the Batman's face. "—_disappears!"

_The Joker yanked up another chair and sat across from the Bat, legs akimbo. "Then you wrap yourself up in so many ghosts and illusions, you can't even separate what's really real anymore. I know you know what I mean. Haven't you ever asked yourself those questions? Who are you really? Are you really, deep down, 'the Batman?' Or are you really—whoever you are when you're not wearing that ridiculous cape?" _

_He grinned, licked his lips._ "_So what was yours, old friend? Do tell. What happened to you? It was a lady, wasn't it? A pretty fiancé? Mommy? Sister? Or something else—your father, maybe. Were you close? Did he call you '_sport'_ and ruffle your hair? Did they get shot? Was it a tragic accident? What was your bad day, Batman? Do their ghosts still haunt you? What magic are _you_ carrying? What's your secret illusion, the trick up your sleeve? You show me yours and I'll show you mine."_

"_It wasn't—I'm not—" the Batman was choking on the words. There was blood involved, and gagging._

_The Joker wondered briefly if he'd broken the man's jaw. He thought something like that might have happened to him once. _

"_I'm not like you. I'm not crazy."_

_The Joker hissed. "I'm _not_ crazy. I'm not." He leaned back, a beleaguered and vaguely perplexed expression on his face. "You do realize you're dressed up in a costume to look like a flying rat, right?"_

_The Batman gulped, then lurched to his feet, swinging madly at the Joker again. The skinnier man simply put up a foot, shoving the Batman back to the floor once more. _

"_That's not _polite,"_ he said calmly. "It must have been your mom who died, right? Or she would have taught you some manners."_

_The Batman choked up some blood. It looked purple on the cement, in the dimness._

_The Joker sighed. "I think I broke my new toy. You should go get yourself fixed up and come back when you're less boring." His lips twitched and he eyes the Batman speculatively. "Or actually ready to listen to my story. You know," he said analytically, sounding bemused, "I think you have trouble empathizing with people."_

_The Batman rasped out a laugh. "You're joking, right?"_

_The Joker grinned. "It's what I do," he said modestly. He stood up calmly, brushing off his pinstripe pants, and smiled beatifically down at the Bat. "You think about what I said, Batman. In Gordon's cell—and here. Now. Think about how we're kindred spirits—soulmates. Think about what I said about your one bad day." His grin turned sour. "When you're feeling better, you'll remember what I said. Realize I was right. It'll haunt you. One bad day, Batman—it's the greatest magic trick of all."_

_He walked out the warehouse doors, whistling a jaunty tune, with the Lady at his side._

**That's how I do this life sometimes**

**by making the ordinary just like magic and just like a card trick and just like a mirror**

**and just like the disappearing.**

**Every boy learns how to be a magician and learns how to misdirect attention**

**and the dark hand is always quicker than the white eye and**

**no matter how close you get to my heart**

**you will never find out my secrets**

**and I'll never tell you**

**and I'll never show you**

**the same trick twice.**

I'm traveling heavy with illusions.

-Sherman Alexie, _The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven _[altered]

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The End

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

**A/N:**

**Yay! Completion. :)**

**Thank you for all your support and encouragement, especially to those of you who have proven faithful readers. This was intended to be just for fun, since I love complex character development and origin stories, and it has actually become a commitment due to the kind words and watchings of you all. :)**

**Now, as a rule, I generally don't do sequels. I don't even do multiple stories in the same category. On the other hand, I don't do multiple-chapter stories, either, and yet here we are. It must have something to do with the Joker's spontaneity, right? And so here we are. I've been convinced to try my hand at a different, less-crazy Joker: more thoughtful, and where—for the most part, anyway—the madness is just a mask. An adrenaline junkie who does, in fact, remember his own past and is simply playing the system, intelligently, for all its worth.**

**If you're interested in seeing post-TDK Joker of a different variety, please check out **_**Jack Names the Planets,**_** coming soon. **

**A sneak peek at **_**Jack Names the Planets**_**:**

_She turned a corner, heading out of Bludhaven_—dark, cold Bludhaven, second in gloominess only to Gotham, glad I'm only passing through_—and hit the highway. _

_Three miles out of town, with the city lights still bright behind her, she saw the hitchhiker. Thumb out, shoulders hunched. He was limned in gold, on and off, there and not—thanks to the blinking amber streetlight._

_She pulled over without hesitation as The Offspring ended, turned down the radio. She didn't unlock the doors just yet, but rolled down the window a crack. _

_The man came up, slid his fingers in the crack. "Headed my way?" his voice sounded knowing, almost sarcastic. A little sexy, if she had been interested. _

"_It depends, stranger," she said, bending her knee to press the back of her calf under the edge of her seat. She could feel the gun tucked under there, reassuringly cold. "Where's your way?"_

"_Far from Gotham."_

_She tossed her head back and laughed, popping the lock on the door. "In that case, hop in."_


End file.
